TPIE
GKEAT
UNKi^owisr
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
{From ihe Oerman of Schœnthan and Kaddburg)
by
AUGUSTIN DALY
nî'.i
As Acted at Daly's Theatre por the First Time,
October 22,1889
NEW YORK
Privatklt Pbintbd for thb Author as Manuscript Only
i*
1890
THE
GEEAT
UNKNOWN
A OOMEDT IN THREE ACTS
{From the German of Schcenthan and KadeRmrg),
by
AUGUSTIN DALY
As Acted at Daly's Theatbe for the First Time,
October 22, 1889
NEW YORK
puyatelt Printed for the Attthor as Mamcscrift Only
1890
DRAMATIS PERSONS AND ORIGINAL CAST.
MR. JEREMIAH JARRAWAY, rather a large-sized Mouse, like¬
wise a somewhat full-grown Moth, but offering a lively
illustration of two familiar fables, . . . Mr. James Lewis.
NED DREEMER, "Cousin Ned," who went away a Methuselah,
and returns "a Daisy," Mb. John Drew.
THE O'DONNELL DON, with a proverb for every occasion,
Mr. Frederick Bond.
TOM PROWDE, in the Musical line, with a penchant for his
pupils, Mr. Sidney Herbert.
PATRICK, an indispensable in the Jarraway household, Mr. T. Cronin.
ETNA, Lu8U8 Naturœ, combination of Mouse and Puss, no other
specimen known to exist Miss Ada Rehan.
PANSY, her sister, Miss Isabel Irving.
MRS. ARABELLA JARRAWAY, the felihe article of the Prov¬
erb, who returns in season to catch the frolicking
rodents Mrs. Anne Yeamanb.
AUNT PENELOPE, a Protecting Angel as well as an Avenging
Spirit, and taking a deal of enjoyment out of both,
SXRS Gr GrIXiBE(R7
SHIRLEY MUNKITTRIGK, her niece, a young widow with His¬
trionic aspirations, Miss Sara Chalmers.
MISS TWITTERS, Mentor and Guide to the demoiselles Jar¬
raway Miss Nit a Sykes.
MLLE. AGATHE, Arabella's companion, . . Miss Adelaide Prince.
The entire action of the comedy passes in the Jarraway Reception
and Sitting Room.
Ten days are supposed to intervene between the first and second acts.
The third act follows one day later.
ACT I.
Afternoon : Cousin Ned telephones for the Unknown to return. 1
ACT II.
Evening : Aunt Penelope finds Number Three, and Etna studies the
sweetest lesson of life.
ACT III. .
Morning : The taming of the Tartar.
ACT I.
Scene.—The Drawing-room at the Jarraways. Furnished
in taste, hut not too richly.
Door
At rise of curtain, Patrick is discovered opening the piano
and placing the stool in front. He picks up a piece of
music and looks over it.
Patrick. Here's what they he's always a-playin' now.
[^Spells.^ F-A-U-S-T—Fust ! I wonder what that is now !
The rest of it is in some furrin' language.—\_7\irns it
over and upside down. Pansy is heard outside. "Now
I'm ready." Patrick hastily puts music on piano and goes
to door c., as Pansy and Prowde enter c. l. He is a styl¬
ish young fellow, and is drawing off his gloves as he enters.
She is a very young girl, in white\
Pansy, \To Prowde.] You're punctual to the minute, as
usual. And so am I, this time.
Ihm. [ With easy familiarity.1 So you are. It's a great
improvement.
Pan. You hush ! [To Patrick.] Go and tell papa I am
going to take my lesson now. [As Patrick is about to exit."]
4
the great unknown.
Stop, Patrick, if papa is asleep over his paper, you needn't
wake him.
Pat. Yes, Miss ! [^Looking offi,., stops."] There he is
now. Miss—in the library. And sure I think he's asleep—
he's holding his paper upside down. \^Exit c. r.]
Pan. Oh, very well. [Goes to piano, looking over music,
and Prowde runs his fingers over the keys^ Let's play very
softly, so we won't disturb papa. Oh, here's our duo !
[Spreads a piece of music on the piano before him, and oc¬
casionally looking off in the direction of her father^ Oh,
Tom, what a dream I had about you. I thought you were
giving piano lessons to a beautiful woman, who gazed at you
with all her eyes—and when I rushed in to separate you, she
froze me with the words : " Y am his wife."
Tom. [Leaning over piano, after a glance off at c.] Why
don't you ever dream of the time when you can say : "I am
his wife ! " Then it would come true.
Pan. [Romantically.^ Oh, this suspense—this secresy—
it's dreadful.
Tom. Then let me speak to your papa to-day.
Pan. No, no—not yet. You must become great—dis¬
tinguished.
2hm. And must we wait so long: ?
Pan. Love will sustain us. [They play the last part of
the duo from " Faust " after first looking off to see if her
father is still sleeping."]
Adagio.
Kiss.
-l-
IS?:-
m
f r ' r
Kiss.
Kiss.
is*
-
m
Interruption.
the great unknown.
5
[Ned appears at c. and watches the group. At the passages
marked in the music Tom and Pansy kissi\
Ned. [ Quizzically eying them through his glass^ Is that
piece very long ? [Tom and Pansy give a start apart, then
finish the piece fiortissimo, awaking Jeremiah, who enters at
L. arch.^
Jeremiah. [In dressing-gown—slippers—paper in hand,
and spectacles on head¡\ That was fine—very fine—I like
that piece very much—very much, Pansy.
Ned. [Advancing b.] So do I, Pansy.
Jer. [Seeing him.'] Eh ? Why, Ned, is that yod ? This is
a surprise, my dear boy.
Pan. [ Coming forward half ashamed.] Why, I never saw
you come in. Cousin Neddie.
Ned. [Crosses to her.] No ? I suppose you were too much
absorbed in your lesson. [Looks at Tom.] Your music teacher,
I presume ?
Tom. [Advancing down i..] At your service ! [Slight bow.]
Ned. I thought so.
Jer. [Introducing.] A—a—Mr. Thomas Prowde, he—a—
takes a very limited number of pupils. We were so lucky as
to get him. Pansy seems to improve wonderfully under his
teaching.
Ned. So I perceive. [To Pansy. Aside and smiling.] He
seems to have a new system of making his lessons interesting
—eh, little puss ?
Pan. [Èntreatingly to him.] Oh, Cousin Neddie, hush,
please. I'll tell you everything.
Ned. [Aside to her, gravely.] I hope so—otherwise
[ Glancing toward Jeremiah meaningly?^
Tom. [ "Who has been speaking to Jeremiah.] You know
the hour isn't up yet—in fact, we had only just commenced.
Jer. Never mind—that'll do for to-day.
Tom. Very well. [7'o Pansy.] We can make up for it next
time.
Jer. Oh, you needn't bother about that. [7b Ned.] He's too
conscientious. [Tom goes up c. and nods to Pansy to follow.]
Ned. [Detecting the nod.] Did you want, to speak to me ?
Oh, I thought you made a sign.
Tom. [Embarrassed.] No—oh, no. I merely wished to
say good-morning. [Lays the roll of sheet music on a chair,
with a meaning glance at Pansy, and goes wjt>.] Good-morn¬
ing ! [Exit c. and r.]
Jer. Good-morning, good-morning.
Pan. Good gracious ! He's forgotten his music 1
6
the great unknown.
Jer, Run after him and give it to him.
Pan. [Eagerly.^ I will ! [ Takes up music and exits, c. and r.]
«Ter. Pansy's a fine girl, isn't she ?
Ned. Yes ; but I'd watch the music-teacher.
Jer. Oh, I do. I sit in the library there—with both of 'em
in my eye—all through the lesson.
JNed. [ Quizzically.'] Oh, then there's no danger. But
where's my little tomboy, Etna ? What is she doing ?
Jer. Oh, you will be surprised at Etna ! She's grown up
a perfect model—quiet, reserved, self-possessed, a regular
young lady—for one so young. Such a change ! You re¬
member we couldn't do anything with her.
Ned. \_Look8 around.] She must be grown very quiet. I
haven't heard a sound.
Jer. She's out visiting a friend. Polly has just gone to
bring her home.
Ned. And how's your wife ?
Jer. Ahenl I [^Goughs.] Oh, she's very well.
Ned. Is she at home ?
Jer. \Coughs again.] N—no.
Ned. Sorry ; I'll call this evening and see her.
Jer. Ahem ! She won't be home this evening.
Ned. No ?
Jer. The fact is, Ned, she's away—been away some time.
Ned. Some time ?
Jer. You see, things have changed since you were here last.
Ned. Let me see—when I was here last—that's quite five
years ago—she had just made her debut as an authoress—
volume of poems, I believe, wasn't it ? Entitled " Italian Sky."
Jer. [ With a faint gleam of pride^ Yes—" Italian Sky "
—pretty good for a person who had never been under it. But
she's gone there now.
Ned. And how long has she been gone ?
Jer. Let's see. Etna will be eighteen next May. Arabella's
been away three years now.
Ned. Why, it's a regular divorce, old boy.
Jer. Well, you see, she says she can't write with all the
children's clatter. First she tried shutting herself up on the
top floor with her books and her pens and ink—wooing the
muse, as she Called it, day and night.
Ned. Busy as that ?
Jer. Oh, she was run down with orders. She didn't take
any pay, you know. The girls and I used to grope up into
the attic occasionally to see her, but she was generally too
absorbed to notice us.
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
7
Ned. I say, what do you think of her poems, anyway ?
Jer. Oh, I never read 'em. I'm no judge.
Ned. You're very proud of her, of course.
Jer. I was, at first, before she got to be famous—when she
was anonymous—the "Great Unknown" they called her.
After that, we began to give receptions and all that, and I
found myself crowded out onto the kitchen stairs and walked
over by the waiters—the children neglected—servants idle
and insolent, and the house going to the devil generally.
I've heard a good deal about the influence of literature elevat¬
ing the social condition of man, but I guess beyond a certain
point it kind o' reacts, [ßinks in chair, L. c.]
Ned. [Smiling.^ Poor old chap.
Jer. You know she wrote under a nom de ploom.
Ned. Oh, yes—" Alpha."
Jer. Yes, "Alpha." Well, after awhile they began to
call me " Omega."
Ned. \ljiaughsi\ I see, she was " first," and you were
" last."
Jer. I didn't quite understand it at the start. I thought
Omega was the name of some Irish fellow. But a good na-
tured friend explained it to me. It's stuck to me ever since.
Ned. Why didn't you assert yourself ?
Jer. You can't assert yourself with a woman who don't
depend upon you for happiness. She got into a crowd that
made her dizzy. I wasn't necessary, so I^asn't considered.
Ned. And to think what a jolly, practical, good New
England housekeeper she used to be.
Jer. {Brightening^ Wasn't she? We were the jolliest
couple that ever went to Niagara Falls on a wedding tower.
And to think after fifteen years she'd break out in a rash like
this !
Ned. You correspond, of course ?
Jer. Yes, I drop her a line once a week, or so—tell her
everything's all right. She told me not to worry her if there was
anything unpleasant, as it upset her, and knocked her muse !
So I got up a couple of letter forms and used them turn and
turn about. [ Crosses E. and laughs.^
Ned. You seem to be cheerful under it all.
Jer. Oh, I get on tip-top now. {Leaning over sofa.'] It
was hard at first. I felt like a sheep that had been locked
out of pasture ; but I've met a few "rollicking rams".at the
club—chaps similarly situated, more or less, and we manage
pretty well.
Ned. And your children, the girls ?
8
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
Jer. [Subdued a bit.^ Well, they're sometimes a bother.
But that s because I take pains to look after them personally;
and I think, without flattering myself, that two better girls,
free from boldness or frivolity or deceit, you won't easily
find. But I can't be with 'em all the time.
Ned. Certainly not.
Jer. Yes, you see I've been induced by one of tlie chaps at
the club to interest myself personally in a most surprising
genius, that is preparing to burst forth from the social ranks,
and bound into the dramatic arena.
Ned, Ah, indeed ! Your genius is of the feminine gen¬
der, of course ?
Jer. Of course. You must have heard of her—Mrs. Mun-
kittrick. [Chuckles.^
Ned. The pretty widow ? Oh, yes. The society papers are
full of her.
Jer. Yes, that's the one. Splendid family. Husband left
her without a cent; determined to make her own way; thirsts
for fame and the footlights.
Ned. I see ; going to step from the drawing-room to the
stage. How did you come to know her ?
Jer. Didn't I tell you—introduced by a friend. She's so
sweet—so unaflFected. Oh, I encouraged her, and she takes
my advice so naturally—so—so—I can't see her often enough.
I've been in the seventh heaven of delight for months.
Ned. Rather marked attention, eh ?
Jer. Oh, I manage that beautifully. You know the ad¬
age : " If you want the daughter, court the mother."
Ned. Ah—there's a mother?
Jer.—Not exactly, but an aunt. Same thing. I spent a
month with 'em at Saratoga this summer. The Doctor ordered
the Springs for the old lady, with plenty of exercise. I took
it with her ; it nearly killed me, but I had my reward.
Ned, Indeed ! What?
Jer. I'm the favorite.
Ned. Of the niece ?
Jer. No, the aunt. But the other'll come. For the pres¬
ent I'm indispensable to the old girl. We play cribbage to¬
gether every night—nickel points. I see the agents for her,
manage the interviewers—in fact, do all her errands, and she
seems to have an uncommon lot of 'em.
Ned. Why, this isn't fun—it's hard work.
Jer. That's so ; and sometimes I feel I could murder that
old woman. But when Shirley happens in the room
Ned. Shirley ?
the great unknown.
9
Jer. Mrs. Munkittrick, the widow, you know. Her name's
Shirley. She lets me call her Shirley for short, and when she
happens in the room, I'm pacified—I'm entranced—fascinated.
You understand. [Pokes him in theribs.^
N'ed. Not exactly, but that's immaterial.
Jer. [Glancing up stage.^ Sh ! Here comes Miss Twitters,
my daughters' governess.
Miss Twitters enters, r. u. d., a dignified and quiet lady.
Miss Twitters. Oh, I beg pardon ! I didn't [Stops.^
Jer. Don't be afraid. This is Cousin Ned you've heard the
girls and me speak of.
Miss T. [ With some anxiety.'] I came to ask you, sir, if
you knew where Miss Etna is. Polly has come back without
her.
Jer. What ! Why, she went to the Hornblowers' after¬
noon dance.
Miss T. No, she did not. Their dance was postponed on
account of measles in the nursery.
Jer. Then where can she be ? Send Polly out again, and
telephone to as many people as you can reach. I hope there's
no accident.
Ned. I wouldn't alarm myself. It's only one of her little
tricks. I know her.
Jer. No—no—not at all. Didn't I tell you she's completely
changed? She's a model girl. [EttTsx^s, voice is heard off J..]
Etna. [Outside^ Somebody with hi ni ? Who is it ?
Jer. There she is.
Etna comes in r. u. d., in a gale, out of breath, skating hat
and jacket on, and with a roll, apparently of music, under
her arm.
Mtna. Who's been looking for me ? Here I am. [Looks at
Ned, without recognizing him, and goes to Jeremiah, giving
him a Well, papa dear, did you want me ? [Looking
at Ned, half coquettishly.] I heard there was somebody with
you. [Aside to Jeremiah.] Who is it ? He looks nice.
Ned. Well, Pussy, don't you know me ?
Ntna. Pussy ! Well, that's cheeky, I must say. [Pecog-
nizing him.] Why—well, if it isn't Cousin Ned ! Well, this
is a go. [Takes her hat off and throws it to Miss Twitters,
shaking her hair loose. Miss Twitters exits with hat.]
Ned. Aren't you going to shake hands with me ?
Etna. [Punning to him.] Here, take 'em both. [They
shake hands warmly.] Let's have a real good look at you.
10
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
My ! haven't you grown handsome ! and you don't look a bit
old. Why, when Í was a kid, I thought you were a regular
Methuselah; but you ain't—you're a regular daisy !
Jer. Etna, Etna ! You mustn't say everything you
think. Remember you're a young lady now.
Etna. [Going to Jeremiah and holding his face in her
hands.l Was it a jealous old daddy? Don't be afraid. It
was a handsome old boy all by itself. [Turns to look at
Ned.] But Cousin Ned's real scrumptious.
Jer. Now, you rogue, tell us where you've been all this
time.
Ena. [Eoldly.\ Where 've I been all this time ? I've
been at the Hornblowers'.
Jer. [Embarrassed, exchanging glances with Ned.] The
Hornblowers' ?
Ned. [Aside.'\ Pretty good for a model girl !
Jer. [Leading her on to commit her self.\ And what sort
of a time did you have at the Hornblowers' ?
Etna. [Evidently making it vp as she goes ow.] Oh,
stupid ! Nobody but school-girls—perfectly insipid—one
harmless little cadet, but he was too fresh for anything.
There was dancing—that is, the girls danced with one
another. At last it grew so dull that somebody proposed
post-office. Post-office among girls—that settled me. I
bolted. [Stage, e.]
Jer. [To with severity.^ Now I'm going to make an
example of her. [Aloud to Etna.] Are you sure you've told
me the whole truth, miss ?
Etna. [Carelessly^ Every time, popsy !
Jer. Indeed, miss ! And what if I tell you that you
haven't been near the Hornblowers' to-day ?
Etna. [Aside."] Oh, lor' ! Here's a pretty mess !
Jer. Polly went there and couldn't find you. The party's
postponed on account of measles.
Ena. [Eursts into tears.] Oh, daddy ! oh ! oh !
Jer. [Aside to Ned.] You see, it breaks her right down—
she's awfully sensitive.
Etna. [Raising her head, and indignantly^ You ought
to be ashamed of yourself to let me go on and tell a story be¬
fore Cousin Ned. What will he think of me ? It's real mean.
I don't love you at all—I don't. [<Soô«.]
Jer. [Nervously to Ned.] Now she's crying, and she
knows I can't stand that. [ Violently^ Stop crying !
Etna. [Bursts out afresh. Jeremiah runs up the stage
in agitation.] To treat—me—like—that—at—the—very—
THE GEEAT UNKNOWN.
11
moment—I was—so glad—that—Cousin—Ned—had come
back from his travels 1 And brought me something. [/Soi-
hing, to Ned.] D—d— didn't you bring me something ?
Jer. \Interpo8es.'\ What impudence! Go to your room,
miss, and don't show yourself again to-day I [/SAe walks
away a step with a modified wail¡\ That's the way I train my
children. [Proudly to Ned.] Did you see how she owned
right up ? There's no falsehood about her.
Ned. I'm very much impressed.
Etna [ Going hack to her father.^ Don't be angry, popsy.
[Strokes his forehead gentlyi\ Let me rub out the horrid
wrinkles. They make you so old.
Jer. [Less harshlyGo to your room, I tell you.
Etna. I'm guing. And as you're so cross, I won't tell you
whom I met just now.
Jer. I don't care who you met.
EJtna. [Slyly."] She sent her regards, and she looked
lovely.
Jer. [ Quick.] She ? Who ?
EJtna. I thought you didn't care ? Well, I'll be generous !
[ Whispers in his ear.] Shirley ! She's going to call with
her aunt presently.
Jer. [Joyfully.] She is ?
EJtna. Now the horrid wrinkles are gone. And you are
your own dear self again, and I hope you are aware of the in¬
justice you did me a while ago. Aren't you ?
Jer. [To Ned.] I suppose I was rather too hard on her !
[Ned coughs, and then goes up stage.]
EJtna. I knew you'd acknowledge it. [Mimicking him.]
And now go to your room, and don't show yourself again to¬
day.
Jer. Now, now—you rogue
Etna. Go—go to your room, I tell you.
Jer. [Laughing, to Ned.] There's no resisting that—is
there ? [Aside to himJ] He—ha—ahem ! The fact is, I
really was going to my room—to fix up a bit. You'll make
yourself at home ?
Ned. Certainly.
Jer. Etna, you stay and entertain Cousin Ned. I've got
some business I've just thought of.
EJtna. In-deed ! Well, don't let the business prevent your
sprucing up a bit for your callers. Get a lively tie, and bou¬
tonnière. I love to see my popsy look the pink of fashion.
Jer. Well, if you insist, I'll do it for your sake. You'll spoil
your popsy, you vain little thing.-
12
THE GEEAT UNKNOWN.
Etna. [Hugs him.^ You dear old darling, shake hands
and be friends.
Jer. There, you puss. [Shakes hands with her, and then
aside to Ned.] Just as soon as they behave, I treat 'em kind¬
ly. My motto is—Be firm, but gentle. See ? It works like a
charm I [Exits, b. d.]
Ned. [ Who has sat down at b. c. and now shakes his finger
at Etna, as she turns to him, laughing, after Jeremiah's exit^
Why didn't you tell your father the truth a moment ago ?
Etna. [Seriously.'] Why, Eddie, I couldn't, you know.
I've beén out skating.
Ned. Skating ?
Etna. I go skating every day, but I don't let papa know,
because he'd put old Twitters on me, and she'd spoil the fun.
Ned. Then you have to tell your father a fib every day ?
Ena. Oh, of course. I can't work the Hornblower racket
any more, though ; but I've got another dodge. I take my
music—[Picks up the roll which she has laid on the piano]—
put it under my arm, this way. [/SAotos how.] " Oh, dear!
I've got to go and change my music again !"—and away I go,
off to Central Park, and out with the skates.
Ned. And how do you contrive to carry yopr skates?
Etna. Stupid! In the music ! [Opens the portfolio and
takes pair of skates out and dangles them in the air\ Oh,
you ought to see me skate. I can go backward, and go In¬
dian file, and I can do the whip lash—can you ?
Ned. I'm afraid not.
Etna. I always take the end, where we have to go like
lightning. I had a nasty tumble to-day, though ; I'm sure I've
got a black and blue spot somewhere. [Eubs her knee.] But
it wasn't my fault—it was Tootles' !
Ned. Tootles !
Ena. Oh, he's only a Columbia boy—lots of 'em come up
there when the girls are on hand ; and as we don't know their
names, we christen them just as they strike us.
Ned. [Aside, amazed.] This is getting better and better.
Ena. I gave Mr. Tootles a piece of my mind too, for go¬
ing down and sending me sprawling. - You just bet he won't
skate with me any more. [Laughs.] You ought to have seen
how miserable he looked. Poor little dudie ! [Äiojos.] You
don't seem to laugh.
Ned. Never mind that—I enjoy it just the same. I've been
greatly amused by you and your father, and Pansy, too. You
make a charming family. I wonder what your mamma would
think if I wrote and told her.
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
13
Etna. \^Sóbering suddenly.^ Mamma !
Ned. I saw her on the other side.
Etna. \Eagerly\ You did !
tiîed. \Mnger to lips.^ Say nothing about it to anybody—
not even to your father. I^have the best of reasons.
Ena. \ïn lower toke, with evident feeling.'] You've seen
mamma ! How I envy you ! "Why does she stay away from us ?
Ned. We discussed that, but unfortunately we couldn't
agree on certain fundamentals, so we gave it up. But I'm
to write her fully about the family—particularly about you !
Etna. Oh, yes—do! \ßfuddenly?] What will you tell her
about mef
Ned. If you like, we can jot down the points together
right off. That is, if you like. [She claps her hands in
delight.]
Etna. That's a jolly good idea! Let's do it! [He goes to
table, l., opens a portfolio, returns with it, and sits on sofa,
c., and takes out pencil. She sits on the arm of another chair
close beside him, so as to bend over his writing occasionally.]
Ned. [ Writing on a letter pad.] Well, let's begin. "Dear
Cousin—I find on my return that your little Etna has de¬
veloped into a lovely woman." How's that ?
Ena. Oh, that's lulu! It'll suit mamma right down to
the ground. [Jumps up ; sits again.]
Ned. [ Writes.] " A pair of inquisitive eyes glance boldly
from her beautiful face."
Etna. [ Casting her eyes down, and seriously^ Am I
really pretty?
Ned. Let me have a look at you. [Studies her.] Pretty
as a picture.
Ena. Am I? Put that down! [He writes. She takes
the pad up to read.] " As pretty as a picture." [ Takes pencil
from his hand^ Let me underline that. [Does äo.]
Ned. [Takes pencil from her, and writes as she leans her
elbows on her knees and her head on her hands, watching him.]
"Of course she has faults."
Ena. [Straightens up^ Have I? Well, I'm anxious to
know what they are.
Ned. "First, she is not over particular about telling the
truth."
Ena. [Pettishly.] Goodness sakes! You ain't going to
worry mamma with that stuff ?
Ned. Don't be alarmed, I'll suggest as excuse that you're
a mere child.
Ena. [Forcihlyl] I am not a child any longer.
14
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
Ned. [^Softly.^ I know, but we must put it that way, so
as not to worry your mother. [^Pointedly.^ For a grown-up
young lady to tell an untruth is
Etna. [Ashamed.^ Yes, you are right. It is bad, and I
shan't do it any more.
Ned. You won't ? In that case we can leave it out alto¬
gether—eh ?
EJtna. Well—if you think so—yes ; let's leave it out.
Ned. \_Rxinning his pencil through the line^ We'll go to
something else. Your studies. [ Writes^ " As to her studies,
she has devoted herself to them most assiduously and con¬
scientiously." [ Without looking at her."] That's so, of course.
Ena. [ With a gulp—boldly."] Yes ! [Ne looks up at her
quizzically. She falters, and then, in a fainter ¿one.] Perhaps
we had better leave that out too.
Ned. [Crosses it out.] Very well. [Writes.] "The girls
are in charge of Miss Twitters, who seems to be a most sensible
person." [Etna turns away and turns up her nose. Ned,
looking up, observes it and writes.] " But she has imparted
to their conversation just the least tinge of that picturesque-
ness we meet with on street corners."
Ena. What do you mean by that ?
Ned. Well—such expressions as "Suit her right down to
the ground."
Ena. Why, what's the matter with that ?
Ned. Nothing, except that it spoils a young girl's mouth
as much as a cigar would. You understand?
Etna. [Reflectively.] Yes—and it is very wrong of Miss
Twitters. Put it down.
Ned. [ Writing.] Down it goes.
Etna. [Lays her hand on his and the pencil.] No. On
second thoughts—don't. We oughtn't to blame Twitters.
Suppose we leave out all about that. It's all rot anyway.
[Corrects herself] I mean it'll worry mamma.
Ned. You are right. We had better write mamma only
the good things ; things that will make her feel glad and proud
of you.
Etna. Yes, that's the best. Begin all over again, with
nothing but the good things.
Ned. [ Tears off the leaf puts it in his pocket, and begins
again.] Only good things—very well. [Reflectively.] First—•
your music. [ Writes.] " She practises every day for—"
[Looks up.] liow many hours ?
Ena. [Laughs.] Oh lor', I'm afraid there are lots of
flies on my music. [Stops.] I beg pardon.
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
15
Ned. Well, what are your good points ? [^Suddenly—and
writing.'\ " She skates backward and can make the whip-lash."
Etna. \Pushing his hand from the paper.\ Oh, bother,
mamma don't want to hear about that.
Ned. Well then, you suggest. You know your own
accomplishments. Tell me, and I'll write them down. \_Pre-
pares to write, after tearing up the last sheet^
Ekna. All right—I'll see if I can size 'em up. \Correct-
ing herself as he looks at her.\ I'll see if I can remember.
Now for the first.
Ned. \Preparing to write^ The first—yes.
Etna. \After a pause—then suddenlyShe's very—!
\Pause—she falters."] No—that won't do.
Ned. [ Waiting.-] Well ?
Ena. ^Suddenly.] Er—er— [Faltering.] No—that
won't do either, [w-ows uneasy; then, half whispering.]
Oh, Cousin Ned ! [Bursts out sobbing and buries her face
in her hand.]
Ned. [Tenderly.] Why—what's the matter ?
Ena. [As he stands beside her she takes his hands and
buries her head in his arms.] I can't think of anything.
Ned. [Smoothing her head gently.] Never mind. Don't
be disheartened. Fortunately a good many good points occur
to me. I shall write her in the first place, "You can trust Etna
completely. She will be a great comfort to you. You can
depend upon it, that there is a true, warm heart in that free
and innocent creature, and that she is destined to make the
man who can hope to call her his own endlessly happy ! "
Ena. [l^earfully, without looking up.] Shall I? [Bursts
into tears again.]
Ned. But why do you cry now ?
Etna. Because I am so glad you think I'm nice. Please
let me go now.
Ned. [Placing pad on table, l.] Where are you going ?
Etna. To wash my face, so nobody will see I've been blub¬
bering—I mean crying—I meant to say crying, really and truly.
Ned, I believe so.
Ena. And, Cousin Ned, if you will wait a couple of days
with that letter to mamma, you shall have something really
good to tell her. I promise.
Ned. [Smiles.] Are you positive ?
Ena. Upon my word and sacred say so. [Offers her
hand.] Will you ?
Nod, I will.
Etna. Thank you ; you are the best—oh, Neddie, I'm
16
the great unknown.
awfully gone on you—you don't know how I like you. [Runs
off, r. u. d.l
Ifed. [^Loohs after her thoughtfully, then goes to table,
tears off the last sheet on which he had begun to write—tears
it up—throws it in the waste-basket, then goes to the telephone
and rings the signal. Pause—bell rings—he takes up the
mouthpiece and speaks into ¿í.] Send a cable message for me
at once. \Repeats as usual at telephones.^ Cable—cable
"message—message by cable. Oh, you do. I'm glad of it.
Mrs. Arabella Jarraway—Hotel Continental—Paris—Paris—
P-a-r-i-s. Hotel Continental—Mrs.—not Mr.—Arabella Jarra¬
way. Very good. Now go on. Cousin Ned is in love with
your daughter Etna. Come home at once. Sign it Jeremiah.
Cousin Ned. In love. Come home. Sign Jeremiah. Thank
you. Good-by ! [Props the instrument. This must all be
done easily and quietly, without exaggeration.^ She was com¬
ing home, but that'll bring her on the next steamer. [^Exits,
c. and r.]
Pansy bounds noisily in from c. and l., brushing past Ned.
Pansy. Etty, where are you? [Goes to door, r., and calls
off.^ Etty ! Shirley's here !
Etna. [Off r.J Hip, hip, hurrah ! [Pansy bounds back to
c. and meets Mrs. Munkittrick, a young and exceedingly
stylish person, who enters, c.]
Mrs. Munkittrick. [As she enters, c. and r.] Oh, you are
both in, I see.
Pan. [Brings her down stage,and confidentially^ Shirley,
I've got something very particular to tell you, when we're
alone. It's a secret.
Mrs. M. [Laughing^ Indeed ! I think I can guess it.
It's a musical secret, isn't it ? [Pansy motions her silence, as
Etna runs in from r. u. d.]
Etna. Oh, Shirley, I am so glad you've come. [Aside,
confidentially^ I've got something very particular to tell
you, alone.
Mrs. M. Indeed !
Etna. There's a great change come "over me.
Mrs. M. You alarm me.
Etna. [Seeing Pansy waichingi\ *Sh ! I'll tell you by
and by. [Aloud.\ I told papa you were coming. He's lay¬
ing himself out to make an impression.
Mrs. M. You chatterbox! You shouldn't notice such
things.
the great unknown.
17
Jeremiah enters^ r. d., carefully dressed—bright cravat, rose
in coat—humming an air. Pretends surprise on seeing
Mrs. Munkittrick, and then greets her vivaciously.
Jeremiah. What ? You here? This is a surprise !
Mrs. M. Really ? [Etna and Pansy exchange glances
and giggle.^
Jer. And to think of my popping in on you this way. If
I had known you were coming, I'd have made a bit of a toilet.
Mrs. M. Oh, not on my account, I beg. \The girls titter^
Jer. [To Etna, who has approached beside him."] Etty,
go and see if it's stopped snowing. [Etna goes to window.
He continues to Mrs. Munkittrick.] Why, there's nothing in
the world.I wouldn't do for— [To Pansy, who has approached
and is listening and laughing^ Pansy, go and see what your
sister is doing. [Pansy goes to window. Jeremiah continues,
effusively.'] I've got such a lot of things to tell you, when
we're by ourselves.
Mrs. M. Have you a secret too ? [He is about to clasp her
hand, and she withdraws it.] Let ine tell you something first.
I've got bad news for you.
Jer. [Alarmed.] You have—what is it?
Mrs. M. Poor Auntie can't come to-day.
Jer. [Relieved^ Oh, can't she ?
Mrs. M. She has a wretched headache, and had to lie
down. You'll miss your game of cribbage with her.
Jer. [Pretending disappointment.] Too bad ! But if
you'll take her place—
Mrs. M. Oh, no I I'm too unluckj' at cards ; especially
since I lost my talisman.
Jer. Talisman ? What was that ?
Mrs. M. A little locket I had as a wee bit of a child. I
missed it thjs summer when I was in Ireland, after a drive
through the Dargle. It wasn't of much value, but I always
fancied it brought me good luck. And do you know, the very
day after I missed it I got a cable from New York telling me
that Abbey couldn't sign the contract for this season, and I'd
have to defer my debut another year ; and the very next week
Felix sent me word he could only finish me thirty new dresses,
instead of seventy; and when I came home I found papa had
lost ever so much by the drop in " Atchison," and he de¬
pended upon my engagement to put him on his feet in Wall
Street. And what else will happen, I don't know. It's ab¬
surd to be superstitious, isn't it ? But I am.
Jer. So am I ; they talk about meeting a red-haired girl—
2
18
the great unknown.
well, only let me come across an old woman of the frisky sort,
and I'm done up for the day. [/Sitó.]
Penelope enters, c. l., on tiptoe—gayly dressed dowager with
a lively manner. Etna and Pansy see her ; the others
do not. Both make am exclamation, " Oh!"" which
they stifle at a sign from her, and she steals down beside
Jeeemiah, and puts her hands over his eyes.
Etna. [Clapping her hands in delight."] Oh, popsy ! guess
who it is ?
Jer. [ Trying to release himself.\ Now, Etty—now Pansy.
Stop this nonsense 1 [Z2is6«.]
Penelope. You're out! [Releasing himIt's I !
Mrs. M. Why, Auntie I [All laugh except Jeremiah.]
Jer. You I [Aside.'\ My luck ! [Aloudi\ I thought
you had a headache !
Pen. So I had. But I took twelve of my drops on a lump
of sugar, and it acted like magic. Then I said : " Poor old
Jarraway will miss his cribbage." So I took six drops more,
put the cribbage board in my bag, and here I am. [Goes
down to table, r., and opens her hag, producing pack of cards,
board, paper, pencil, etc.\
Jer. I'm sorry you took all that trouble, for I've got a sort
of a headache myself.
Pen. That's too bad. But we'll soon fix that all right.
[Jhirns aside and takes vial and lump of sugar from her bag,
and counts twelve drops.^
Mrs. M. [To Jeremiah.] I'm so sorry. Perhaps we had
better not disturb you. Come, Auntie, we'll go.
Jer. [Eagerly, and aside to Aer.] I haven't any headache ;
I don't want to play, that's all. I'd rather talk to you. I've
got so many things to tell you.
Pen. [Corking vial and restoring it to bag, and coming
forward with the lump of sugarl\ Here you are.
Jer. [Aghast.^ What's that ?
Pen. The drops. They taste dreadful, but they'll cure
you right off.
Jer. [ Waving her off.'\ I don't want 'em !
Pen, [Catching his hand and holding itfirmly."] You must.
Come, be a good old boy or we'll go right away. [He is
subdued.^ Open your mouth. [/SAe puts the lump on his
tongue.^ There ! [Returns to table and arranges it for the
game. Mrs. Munkittrick Aasjoiwec? Pansy atpianol\
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
19
Jer, Horrible 1 horrible 1 There's valerian in it, and
now I'm sure to have a headache in earnest.
Pen. \At table, down ii.] All's ready. We'll begin where
we left off last night.
Jer. [ Coming to table. Aside.\ This is jolly. [/Se'íí and
shuffles cards mechanically
Etna. [At window, to Pansy and Mrs, Munkittrick, who
are at piano.] Oh, Pansy, see here, quick ! [Pansy goes to
window, and Mrs. Munkittrick follows more slowly.] That
gentleman across the way with the big red mustache --
Mrs. M. Red mustache ! [Goes qwicMy to window.]
'Etna. He's looking up here, and winking as hard as he
can. Ah, there, Maginnis ! [Suddenly ashamed-.] I didn't
mean that !
Mrs. M. For goodness' sake, come away, girls ! It is he !
[/iSAe comes forward, followed by the girls ; Etna runs bach to
take another look, and Jeremiah drops his cards and starts
up.]
Ena, Pan., and Jer. It is he ? It's who ?
Mrs. M. He follows me everywhere.
Ena. [Returning to window.] He's gone now.
Mrs. M. [Relieved.] Thank Heaven !
Pen. [ Who has come forward.] Perhaps he only went
round the corner. Go and look from the library window.
Ena. I will. [Exits, l. arcJu]
Pen. So will I. [Follows her.]
Jer. Who is the fellow ?
Mrs. M. I saw him at the Metropolitan the other night. I
was in a box and he was in the parquette. Of course lots of
people were looking at me ; but this man stood up and lev-^
elled his opera-glass so as to attract everybody's attention.
Pen. I remember now.
Mrs. M. All at once he seemed to make up his mind to
something, and actually began to motion to me and bow.
The people around- him tittered, and then all began to level
their glasses at me, so that I had to get up as if to change my
seat. He surmised that I was going to leave, and began to
scramble over everybody's toes to get out. He made the
people so mad that they gave him as much trouble as possible,
and I managed to escape before he could reach the door.
Jer. That was lucky.
Mrs. M. Next day—would you believe it—he was at a
window opposite our hotel. I gave him a look, I can tell you.
Jer. ^ Did he go away ?
Mrs. M. Not a bit of it. But I watched my opportunity
20
the great unknown.
and never gave him a chance to see when I went out. That
was up to yesterday.
Jer. And what happened yesterday ?
Mrs. M. I was in a sleigh in the Park, and almost ran over
him. He stood stock still till a mounted policeman went for
him so energetically—to save his life—that he rolled him over
and over into a snow-bank.
Jer. Served him right.
Mrs. M. Just as he was doing his act of ground and lofty
tumbling, I heard him exclaim : "I've got it."
Jer. Well, he had. I hope he'll get it again.
Pen. Shirley, this is splendid. If you can only get it into
the papers it will make your fortune. Pursued by an un¬
known admirer—say a Russian Prince or a German Count.
Mrs. M. No, no ; he's American or English.
Pen. Then he's not so profitable. You want a title to
make these things read well. Still, anybody following in a
hopeless pursuit is better than nothing.
Mrs. M He seems so determined. [ Glances at uoindowP^
I'm actually afraid.
Jer. \With emTphasis.^ What are you afraid of? You
are safe here from everything but the most reverential and
respectful homage. \Tries to kiss her hand.^
Mrs. M. [Withdrawing her hand."] Exactly—the most
reverential and respectful—don't forget.
Jer. \Aside.'\ I'm not likely to.
Patrick enters with a card on a salver.
Patrick. This gentleman is after asking if he can see you
on particular business, sir.
Jer. {Takes card and reads.^ "The O'Donnell Don."
Never heard of him.
Pen. Sounds Irish.
Mrs. M. Suppose it should be my persecutor ?
Jer. We'll have him up, and I'll give him a piece of my
mind. [Makes signal to Patrick, who exits, c. r.]
Mrs. M. Be sure you set him right about me.
Jer. I'll set him right about face. [Mrs. Munkittrick
exits, l. arch.\
Pen. Don't be too hard on him, Jeremiah. Dear Shirley
must make up her mind to accept a little annoyance for the
sake of the advertisement. I'm coming, dear. [Exits, l. arcA.]
Jer. [/iSoZtiS.] I think it would be an equally good adver¬
tisement to kick him down stairs.
the gkeat unknown.
21
Patrick shoios in O'Donnell, c. r. Me is a hig, good-nat¬
ured, headlong fellow, and, to the superficial eye, half a
fool and unsophisticated.
O'Donnell. I beg your pardon if I've disturbed you.
Jer. Well, not to rnince matters, you have.
O'D. Have I now ? I'm sorry, but I've got important
business.
Jer. Oh, you have !
O'l). I have. I'll tell you all about it in a minute. Sit
down. \ Half pushes him into chair he pulls over for him.^
Jer. \^Stupefied.^ Thank you. [Äiis on edge of chair.^
O'D. on sofa.'\ Now, first of all, whom have I the
honor to be speaking to ? [^Pauses inquiringly and smil-
ingly.]
Jer. You mean to tell me you don't know ?
O'D. Not the slightest idea. However, if you have any
reason for concealing
Jer. \Pises.^ No, sir. My name is Jarraway—Jeremiah
Jarraway.
O'D. {^Shakes hands cordially with him¡\ I'm glad to
know you, Jeremiah. And now, where do you think I come
from ?
Jer. Bloomingdale ! on sofa.^
O'D. Not a bit of it. From the Park. \Draws chair near
Jeremiah, and slaps him on the leg.^ Been there all day—on
the lookout for a certain lady.
Jer. \_Aside?[ Oho! This is the fellow, sure enough.
O'D. She's no ordinary woman, .Teremiah, but the most
dazzling bit of creation that ever blinded the eyes of adoring
man. In short, she's just as I like 'em.
Jer. Yes, just as I like 'em too.
O'D. I'll bet you do! Ah, Jeremiah! \^Slaps him on the
leg again.'\ Well, to make a long story short, she didn't turn
up. So I told cabby to drive down the avenue slowly—when,
lo and behold !—there, before me, turning into this street, was
the darling little angel herself. By the time'I reached the
corner she disappeared. Well, in Ireland we have a proverb,
"Mas ail teat an t-seod loirgi!" Do you understand ?
Jer. Not clearly.
O'D. That's Irish, and it means, "If you would find the
jewel, look for it." And so I'm looking.
Jer. \Ijying back in his chair."] Oh, so you're looking,
are you ?
O'D. I am. For in Ireland we have another proverb,
22
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
^'Anois no coidce,^' which means, " Now or never." And if I
may take the liberty
Miss Twitters enters, r. u. d.
Jifiss Twitters. 1 beg pardon—I didn't know [O'Don-
NELL rises and bows.^
Jer. [Gravely to O'Donnell.] Is this the lady you ?
O'D. [After putting on his glass.'] Sorry, no. [JBows
to Miss Twitters and to Jeremiah.] Mrs. Jeremiah, I pre¬
sume ?
Jer. Sorry, no. [ 7b Miss Twitters.] Excuse me, please ;
I'm engaged.
Miss T. Oh, certainly. [ Courtesies to O'Donnell and
crosses to r. O'Donnell crosses and holds door open for
her.]
O'D. Happy to make your acquaintance, ma'am. [She
exits, r. u. d. He returns to his seat.]
Jer. I'm very sorry, but you see I'm
O'D. Sure I'll not detain you a moment longer. , Excuse
the question, but have you a daughter?
Jer. [Firmly and vexed^ No, sir.
Pansy bounds in from l.
Pansy. Papa—oh! [Stops.]
O'D. [7b Jeremiah.] Oh, there is a daughter! [Pises
and bows.] Miss Jeremiah
Etna runs in from l.
Fna. Oh, papa—I just wanted [Ä<0jt?5.]
O'D. Another daughter ! Two daughters ! Jeremiah, I
congratulate you ! [Bows to Etna.] Miss Jeremiah, No. 2 !
[7b Jeremiah.] Excuse me, do you happen to have any
more daughters ?
Jer. [Impatiently.] No, I don't happen! [7b girls.]
What are you doing here ? Go away, I've no time now.
Etna. Oh! Come, Pansy! [They cross to exit. O'Don¬
nell hastens over and holds door open for them.] Oh, thank
you! [7b Pansy, in confusion.] Ain't he a daisy? [The
girls exeunt in confusion, O'Donnell bowing them off, then
returning to Jeremiah.]
O'D. [Before leaving the door.] Charmed, I'm sure ! [7b
Jeremiah.] I'm afraid I've put you out a little.
THE GEEAT UNKNOWN.
23
JeT, \Pokingfire, l.] You have.
Ö'Ä So sorry. Nice old party as you seem to be, with
such a nice family—just as I like 'em. But the point is about
the other young lady. Can you give me any information ?
[Jeekmiah stamps -and raises his hands^ No ? So sorry.
Perhaps if I were to explain more fully [Jeeemiah gasps
in his rage^ Not agreeable? Well, I'm going. \Turns to
90.\
Jer. At last !
O'J). Yes, Jeremiah, at last. But I must see her. So you
won't mind my waiting outside in the cab.
Mes. Munkitteick enters, l. arch, angrily.
Mrs. MunJcittrick. That will not be necessary, sir.
O'J?. Herself—at last ! [ Overjoyed.^
Jer. \yexed.\ Confound it !
O'D. ^Adnancing to Mes. Munkitteick.] 'Pon my soul
I'm so glad I
Mrs. M. [ Waves 'him off.'\ My sole object in showing
myself, sir, is to put an end to your persecution.
0*D. Persecution ? Oh !
Mrs. M. I wish you to understand, if you can, that you
have deeply offended a person who has never given any one
the right to behave to her as you have done to me.
O^JD. Now, what have I done ?
Jer. What have you done ? Well, that beats Banagher,
and you know who Banagher beat.
Mrs. M. I can excuse you on the assumption that you
have only the most distant acquaintance with the manners and
custonis of American society. The first rule with gentlemen
in our country is to treat every woman as if she were a lady,
and entitled to his respect and protection.
O^D. [Under breath, and bowing to Aer.] Sure, lady,
that's the first lesson our Irish babies are taught in their cra¬
dles, and they take it with their mothers' milk.
Jer. [Dryly.l I guess you skipped that lesson in your
cradle.
O'D. [Turning to him, quietly.^ Perhaps you would like
to give me another then, in place of it.
Jer. It isn't worth the trouble.
O'D. [ Going over to him with meaning.^ Then, if you
prefer, I'll give you one.
Jer. Ahem—er—er— [Gets out of his way and sii«.]
0''D. [Follows and addresses him behind his back.'\ I never
24
the great unknown.
permit a man to call into question my respect for woman ; but
when a lady insults my country by accusing me, a son of the
soil, of forgetting what is due her sex, and charges me with
giving offence on purpose, and of persecuting, and of annoy¬
ing her, thus grossly misconstruing—or, in short, misunder¬
standing—a—a—my motives and objects and purposes, and
thereby wounding me profoundly !—when, as I say, a lady
does this—I—I can only keep silent !
Jer. [Starting up.'\ That's his idea of keeping silent !
Mrs, M. [Has gradually relented^ I don't know how it
happens, but you manage to make it appear as if I were in
the wrong.
O'Z). [Gradually resuming his old manner.^ So you are.
Mrs. M. [Astonished.^ What? Haven't you been con¬
stantly following me for the last week ?
0^1). Oh ! much longer !
Mrs. M. [ With an exclamation of impatience and anger^
and going to Oh I
O'D. But sure it was only to restore something you had
lost. [Produces a small locket^ This is it !
Mrs. M. My locket ! [He hands it to her^ and she re¬
ceives and kisses it with joy^ My dear little talisman ! [To
O'Donnell.] And you found it ?
O^H. I took that liberty.
Mrs. M. [Offers her hand.^ You have really given me
great happiness, and I thank you.
O^JD. Oh ! [About to kiss it—stops—but still holds fi.]
No ; I can't run the risk of offending you again.
Mrs. M. Oh, you may ; the past is all forgotten.
OP. May I ? Then I will take the liberty. [Hisses it
ardently.}
Jer. [Aside.} That's the stupidest ass I ever saw !*
Mrs. M. [ Gayly, to O'Donnell.] But tell me all about
it. How did you ever find my locket ?
OP. I should like to tell you, but [ Glancing at Jeremiah.]
I don't know if it's agreeable.
Mrs. M. Why, certainly. [To Jeremiah.] Do try and
persuade Mr. O'Donnell to remain.
Jer. [Aside^ I guess he'd better tell her here than some¬
where else. [Lays finger on nose and winks.} Take a seat.
Stay by all means. [Looks at his watch.} You've got fully
five minutes.
OP. [Sitting between Mrs. Munkittrick and Jeremiah.]
Oh, I've got all day—nothing to do—like this summer when
you were passing through the Dargle.
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
25
Mrs, M. \Interested^ Yes.
O'D. I was whiling away an hour there with my cigar, one
moonlight night.
Mrs. M. It was moonlight when I was there.
O^D. It was the same moonlight. Don't you remember
singing as your jaunting-car wheeled you along the high cliffs ?
Mrs. M.' Yes, perfectly.
O'Z). Sure I heard you, and all that night I dreamed of
the voice, and next morning at the table I heard the self¬
same voice telling the landlord of our hotel about having lost
during her moonlight drive a locket that she had treasured
when a child.
Mrs. M. That was I. My little talisman was so precious
to me.
O'D. I got up, bought a stout stick, and went to look for
the lost treasure without saying a word to a soul.
Mrs. M. It was looking for a needle in a hav-stack.
O «/
Jer. Nobody but a wild Irishman could do it.
O'D. [ Quietly, to Jeremiah.] It seemed so, didn't it ?
Well, I went up the Dargle as far as the Falls, and the first
thing I did was to lose my stick. I stumbled, and away it
flew down a gap to the boiling water below.
Jer. That was a smart thing to do.
O'D. So I thouffht, for I had been tripping over it all the
way along. [To Mrs. Munkittrick.] But the next moment
I found myself going—slipping down—down—faster and
faster, until I brought up half-stunned between a stump and
a bowlder. When I got my breath and looked around, what
do you suppose I saw, lying right before me ?
Jer. [ a sneer¡\ The locket, of course.
O'D. No ; my stick. {Laugh, in which he is joined by
Mrs. Munkittrick, hut not by Jeremiah.] Well, with its
aid I crawled up again, and had to nurse a sprained ankle for
the next week. My first day out I resumed the search in
earnest, with the aid of a half-ragged gossoon, whom I found
prowling about the place. Well, I couldn't find the locket any¬
where, and, tired out with the constant climbing up and down
the steep sides of the ravine, I threw myself on the ground,
when the young rogue with me suddenly looked about him
and said : " Why, this is the very spot I found a piece of
jewelry last week." "You did?" says I. "I did that," says
he. " Where is it?" says I. " It's down hid in me mother's
cabin at Bray," says he. Down into the town we flew, reached
his cabin,* and found the locket. I was that overjoyed I fell
on his neck and gave him half a sovereign.
26
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
Mrs. M. So I'm your debtor.
O'D. Yes ; I gave him half a sovereign and a hug.
Jér. \Advancing^ I can settle for both right away.
0'D. There's no hurry.
Mrs. M. How can I thank you for taking such pains ?
0^D. By not thanking me at all. It was for your sake,
and that made it lighter. Besides, it was really no trouble.
Jer, I should think not. Why, he didn't find it at all. It
was the other fellow—the gossoon.
O"D. [7b Mrs. Munkittrick.J The hardest task was
to find you and restore it.
Jer. Hard to find her ? Why, you put upright opposite
her flat ?
0'J5. [7b Mrs. Munkittrick, overjoyed.'\ Is it there
you live ? Sure now I can call any time.
Jer. \Aside^ Put my foot in it then. It's about time he
retired.
Penelope enters l. arch with a letter, which she hands Mrs.
Munkittrick.
Penelope. Here's a letter for you, Shirley; it's just come,
and I think it's from one of the theatres.
Jer. \Bu8tling about, with the intention of dismissing
O'Donnell.] You'll excuse us now, Mr.—Mr. Gossoon, but
you see we're engaged. We mustn't keep a lady waiting.
OP. Certainly, I'm going.
Mrs. M. [ Who has opened and read the letteri\ What do
you think, Auntie, it's from another manager. He wants me
to come right down and sign the contract, and says he has a
company all ready to support me, and can arrange for my dé- ,
but at once, and can get Felix to send over the rest of my cos¬
tumes immediately. Oh, I must go and see him right away.
Jer. I'll go with you.
O'T). Excuse me. [Points to Penelope, who has been ar¬
ranging the cards at table, r.] We mustn't keep a lady wait-
ing.
Jer. [Half aside.'l Oh, confound it !
0'7>. [7b Mrs. Munkittrick, offering his arm.] Permit
me.
Mrs. M. With pleasure. [Pets her hand in his arm, and
he takes it up and kisses it frequently."] Come, come—that's
enough.
0'7>. Not for me ! In Ireland we have a proverb,
" Nuair a suidefead tu air crann silin it na silinide,"
' the great unknown.
27
which means, " When you sit in a cherry-tree, eat the cher¬
ries." Well, I've had a hard time to find my cherry-tree—
so don't you think ?
Mrs. M. That will do. Come along. By-by, Auntie.
O'D. By-by, Jeremiah ; by-by !
Jer. Dash it ! Hang it! We've got a proverb in New
York [As he sits at table., glaring at Penelope, and as
the others go off, c.] But that'll keep !
Curtain.
ACT II.
Same Scene.—Evening. At the l., opposite the card-table, is
a round table, on which is a lighted lamp. The fire is
alight and sheds a red glow on the scene. There is a
lighted lamp also on the piario, and a lamp is lighted in
the library. Etna is sitting at the l. of the table, her
elbows on it, sucking a pen-handle, and watching Miss
Twitters, who is perusing a composition, with her glasses
on.
Miss Twitters. [Finishing the reading as the curtain rises,
and looking at Etna severely, and in a severe tone^ Well, if
this doesn't beat everything. At your father's special request,
Missi I have given you studies in American History for the
past seven weeks ; and now, when I request from you a short
composition on the subject of the Pilgrim Fathers, and their
character and influence, you give me this.
Etna. Isn't it good ?
Miss T. Good ? It's flippancy—it's— ! Let me read a
passage: " The only original-Pilgrim Fathers landed on De¬
cember 21, a:d. 1620. They were emigrants, but they did
not come from Ireland, like other emigrants. They were Eng¬
lish. This was how the early English got a footing in this
country. They landed at Plymouth Bock. The rock is worn
away, but the Pilgrims are here. That shows they are harder
than rocks. There were also several Pilgrim Mothers, but they
were all called Fathers. Likewise the children." Is this in-
28
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
tended as a contribution for the last page of the Bazaar^ or
is it your idea of an historical essay ?
Etna. Well, I thought I'd try and make it spicy and attrac¬
tive, like the comic histories in Cousin Neddie's library.
Pansy enters, r.
Miss Twitters. You will please present me with a serious
composition on the subject, or I shall report to your father,
[Hands papef back.^
Pan. [Has entered from r. u. d., studying from a book
which she shuts up and clasps to her breast as she comes for¬
ward, repeating the lesson to herself in dumb show.\ Now,
Miss Twitters, will you hear me fire away ? [ Opens book and
hands it.']
Miss T. Your sister will hear you. [Gives the book to
Etna.] I am employed elsewhere. [Takes up her work-
basket and goes slowly off, l. arch.]
Pan. [Reciting in a sing-song style to Etna, who holds
the book, but watches Miss Twitters go off.] " Christopher
Columbus left school when he was very young, and went to sea
for fifteen years, when he got married, and his wife's father
was a sailor, too, and " [At this point Miss Twitters
has disappeared and Etna tosses the book on a sofa and
jumps up.]
Etna. Sh^s gone ! Hooray ! [Runs quickly to a cabi¬
net at c., opens it, and looking round to see if she is observed,
takes from it a bound novel, with which she runs to an arm¬
chair at L. of table and curls herself up to read.] Where did
I leave off ? Oh ! here it is. [Settles herself and reads.]
" But while uttering these words, that sounded like a last
farewell, Zenobia turned ; her dark eyes flashed with the
fire of volcanic passion, and she suddenly flung herself into
the strong clasp of Sir Guy, twining her beautiful arms
around his manly neck, while her finely cut lips sought to
devour the words ere they fell from his beautifully chiselled
mouth ! *'
Pan. What on earth's that ?
Ena. [ Cautiously.] Mamma's last novel—I bought it at
Brentano's. Oh, it's lollypop, I tell you.
Pan. Lollypop ? [Affectedly.] Dear, dear Etty, where do
you get such expressions ?
Ena. What's the matter with you ?
Pan. Never mind ; go on. [Kneels on chair at back of
table and leans over ¿í.j What becomes of the lovers ?
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
29
Etna. Oh, they have such a scene ! [Reada.^ " Supporting
her trembling form in his muscular arms, he led her to the
marble bench beside the plashing fountain, and clasping her un¬
resisting hand, he poured forth, in accents wrung from the
depths of his surcharged soul—"
Ran. [Efas held oäie end of the booJc, and now joins in
reading.—" the long pent-up declaration of his quenchless
passion ! "
Etna. \Looks up as they pause and gasps a breath.^
Oh, isn't it strong ! [^Reads, while Ned enters quietly at
back and overhears.'] " And now," he said, " that we
must part—that we must tear these fetters of our hopeless
love— "
Ran. [Taking it up and reading.] "—must end this dream
in which we lived, as if for countless ages, in one delirious
vision—"
Etna. [Co7itinuing.] "—must wake from the sleep that
opened glimpses of a world of rapture—oh, angel—woman—
goddess—farewell—farewell—fa-re-well ! "
Ned. [Quizzically. ] Good-by! [The girls jump up in
alarm.]
Etna. Cousin Ned !
Ned. Yes. Miss Twitters told me you were at your lessons.
What were you doing ?
Ran. Reading.
Etna. Mamma's last novel.
Ned. So you deceived your governess ?
Ena. [Bursts into laughter.] Oh, poor Miss Twitters !
We worked the racket beautifully on her. [Stops suddenly
at a look from Ned,]
Ned. What?
Etna. I know—I know—I wasn't to talk that way any
more ; but you came in so suddenly, I forgot.
Ned. [ TR'íA mock gravityI apologize. It shall not
occur again.
Etna. Now you're chaffing. [Ricks up a school-book from
table, l,, and reads, while Pansy sits at table and pretends to
be studying from another?^ But I really have been hard at
work. Cousin Neddie—and I've stowed a lot. [Gives him the
book, opened at a certainpagei] You just see me take a fall
out of my " Universal History." [He takes the book, and she
steps back a pace or two, puts her hands behind her, and re¬
cites rapidly.] "The next reign was that of Sultan Mah¬
moud. We are told that by his perpetual wars abroad and
his tyranny at home he depopulated his empire, and at last
30
the great unknown.
roused his subjects to rebellion." How's that ? Haven't I
got tlie old jay down fine ?
Ked. Old jay ? [^Pretends to look in hookJ\ I don't find
that passage.
Etna. [^Closes the book in his hand."] I forgot again. I'll
study ten more pages as punishment. Then you won't be
angry with me ; will you ?
Ned. \^Itises amused.^ I'm not angry.
Etna. Then I'm not angry with myself. But I did intend
to be very severe. I wanted to have a nice long chat with
you; but now I shall go straight to my room [Crosses, tl.']
and copy my rule sixty times. Do you know what rule I've
written in my copy-book ? [Traces imaginary lines with
ßnger.^ " Think twice before you speak once." Isn't that
good ?
Ned. Excellent. But don't punish yourself too severely.
Etna. [Eïrmly.^ I must. I said I would, and I'll stick
to it. Don't detain me. [Goes to door, r., and then returns.']
But I can shake hands with you all the same. [Shakes his
hand and marches off / stops at door.] I guess, as I'm so good,
I needn't copy it more than thirty times. [Eheit, b. u. d.,
laughing.]
Ned. [Looking after her.] Little witch !
Pan. [Looking up from hook, looking round cautiously,
then rising, and mysteriously.] Cousin Ned !
Ned. What is it ?
Pan. We are going to have one another.
Ned. How? [Not comprehending at first—then struck.]
Oh, I see ; you and the gentleman at the piano ? [Pansy
nods.] Has your papa given his consent ?
Pan. Papa doesn't know a word about it. We are going
to ask mamma.
Ned. Have you written ?
Pan. No. Tom is going to see her.
Ned. What, going to Europe ?
Pan. He's gone to engage his passage now. Wasn't that
a happy thought ? It was mine ! Oh ! I'm so happy 1 I'm
so happy ! [Skips off, r. u. d.]
Ned. And she's on her way home now.
Jeremiah enters l. arch, dressed quite youthfully.
Jeremiah. Hello, Ned ; that you, old man? [Goes to
mantel, down l., and adjusts a rose in his button-hole.] How's
this, eh?
THE GEEAT UNKNOWN.
31
Ned. Very neat. You look quite youthful.
Jer. Do I ? Do you know, somehow I never felt so full of
life? I believe if you'd lend me a back in a game of leap¬
frog, I could go over you like a bird. Shall we try ?
Ned. No. I don't want to be responsible for the conse¬
quences.
Jer. I feel so full of go—vigor—youth. I don't know why,
but it's so. \Dances a step or tioo.\
Ned. I don't know why either ; but the way you skip
about reminds me
Jer. \^Cheerfully.'\ Reminds you of what? Out with it !
Ned. Of the way little boats spin around just before they
go over Niagara. Take care !
Jer. Take care ? Stuff ! What are you driving at ?
Ned. Your little romance with the fair Munkittrick. I'm
a little doubtful about the propriety and the result—as far as
your happiness is concerned.
Jer. \Toying with the flower in his hutton-hole.'\ Think
so, eh ? Well, where do you suppose I got this rosebud ?
Ned. From her?
Jer. From her, old man. \Both sit.^ You know I take,
her to the theatre in my carriage every day and evening—with
her aunt, of course. She's rehearsing nights and mornings for
her début, you know. Last night, as I was bringing her home,
her bouquet—my bouquet—rolled out of her lap in the car¬
riage, and we both stooped to pick it up. My dear boy, her
hand came in contact with my hand for an instant ; I gave it
a little squeeze—it was returned ! And this rosebud remained
as a trophy ! What do you say to that ? [Slapping his
shoulder.^
Ned. And what did the aunt say ?
Jer. Oh, she was groping around the bottom of the car¬
riage, and never suspected a thing. [Seriously.^ But, talking
of the aunt, I've humored her so long that I can't shake her
off. [Ihkes a sheet of foolscap from his pocket.'] Here's a
list of things she wants me to do. She makes out one like
that every day. She wants me to take her to a Christian Sci¬
ence matinée to-morrow, [.ßfses, flrmly.] But I can't. I
haven't the time. I say, old fellow, that would be something
for you.
Ned. You want to throw me to the aunt like a tub to a
whale.
Jer. [ Coaxingly.] Do it for my sake. Take her about
for a week or so, till I've weaned her. Eh ? [Forces paper,
etc., on him.] Here's your list of errands for to-day ; here's
32
the great unknown.
your tickets for the matinée, and in the evening—\Pointa to
card-table down r.] you have your little game of cribbage.
Ned. At a nickel a point ?
Jer. Yes. You get a good deal of pleasure for the money
if you like the game. [ Goes to table and gets out cards, etc.
Aho vial of drops.'l Here's everything, ready. Here are
your drops, too.
Ned. In case I have a headache. \^Shakes his hand.^ You
think of everything.
Penelope enters, as if from the street, at c. l. Jeremiah
rushes up to her.
Jer. My dear Mrs. Prime. How glad I am you've dropped,
in. You know Cousin Ned ?
Penelope. {^Bows and shakes hands with Ned.] I have
the pleasure. [Ned adjusts his eye-glasses and enjoys the
following .*]
Jer. \Aside to /ler.] Charming fellow ! [Aloud.l We
were just speaking of you—in terms of the profoundest rever¬
ence, of course. Especially Ned.
Pen. l^Smiling.'] Indeed !
Jer. Yes. He actually said—but there, I won't betray
him. The point of it is, that he's dying to make a third in
our little friendly partnership.
Pen. \^Smiling.'\ Indeed !
Jer. He insists upon doing some of your errands to be¬
gin with.
Pen. \Same.'] Indeed !
Jer. Yes. [Aside, annoyed.^ What the deuce does she
always say," Indeed ! " for? [Aloud and gayly.^ And he
asks as a particular favor to take my place at cribbage.
Pen. Indeed ! [Smiling.] I think I understand. You
waht to back out.
Jer. [Deprecating^ Oh !
Pen. Oh, yes. But don't be uneasy, I'm quite willing.
There's a small obstacle to Cousin Ned, though.
Jer. What obstacle ?
Pen. [Turns to Ned,] He's been there before.
Jer. What ?
Pen. We've been partners already.
Jer. You have !
Pen. When we were abroad. He was very attentive to
Shirley through an entire winter at Nice.
Jer. He was?
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
33
Pen. Yes. He thought the best way to win the niece was
to make love to the aunt.
Jer. \Aside.^ My little game !
Pen. He overwhelmed me with attentions for three months,
walked miles with me before breakfast, and played cribbage
every evening.
Jer. l^Aside, grimly¡\ The vile hypocrite !
Pen. Those were happy days ! [Goes to Ned.] And
when I lost you I thought all was over—didn't I ?
N^ed. I don't dare flatter myself.
Pen. [Turns to Jekemiah.] But when I came home and
you turned up [Jeeemiah smks in a chair by table, e.] and
began to make love to the aunt for the niece, I revived.
[Turns to Ned.] I dropped a silent tear over the grave of
the departed. You became only a sainted memory ! [Offers
her hand to Ned, and then goes up.^
Ned. [Pressing her hand?^ Peace to his ashes ! [ Goes
to card-table, adjusts cards, hoard, etc. Shakes Jeeemiah's
hand, presses his ßngers in silent benediction on the tatter's
head, and exits, c. l. Penelope has gone to lay aside her
shawl and wrap at l. arch, and now comes forward.^
Pen. Why so silent ?
Jer. Silent ? No—I—T was thinking, and nothing oc¬
curred to me. [ Casually.\ Shan't we have our little game ?
[iSees table and cards beside A¿m.] Why, here are the cards
—how fortunate !
Pen. [Laughs¡\ No—no—my dear Jeremiah, that's all
over. No more cribbage.
Jer. "No more. [Pises.^
Pen. No. I shall have to give you warning. You have
only yourself to blame for it. I allude to your imprudence last
night in the carriage.
Jer. [Alarmed.^ What imprudence ?
Pen. [Withmild reproof. \ I see you are still wearing iiiy
rosebud.
Jer. Yours ?
Pen. If my niece knew that you had taken that opportu¬
nity to squeeze my hand
Jer. [Palls back in chair, hopelessly.^ I got the wrong hand.
Pen. Don't be alarmed—the secret is safe.
Jer. Thank you.
Pen. But—never again !
Jer. [W^ith energy.Never ! It wouldn't have happened
last night if I had thought it was you. [ Correcting himself. ]
I mean if I had thought you wouldn't like it.
34
[the geeat unknown,
Pen. \^Sternly.'\ How could you possibly suppose I would
like it?
:e was returned.
to myself, " Poor Jeremiah. He does so much for so little.
He deserves to have some comfort." So I returned your press¬
ure.
Jer. [^Sarcastically.^ That was very sweet of you.
Pen. No, it was not. I ought not to have gone so far.
The very next minute I said to myself, " What would Iiis
wife think ? "
Jer. [Alarmed.'\ Don't mention it. [Reassured.^ But
who's to tell her?
Pen. Oh, she'll hear it from me.
Jer. What ? Do you know Arabella ?
Pen. Do I know Arabella ? Why, I write to her once a
week. I keep her posted regularly as to what's going on.
We're right good friends.
Jer. [Aside.^ That's horrible ! Horrible ! [Aloudi\
Why didn't you tell me ?
Pen. I wanted to surprise you sometime.
Jer. You've succeeded. [Crosses r., sits.'\
Pen. [Sits on sofa.^ We met in Paris. She took a great
deal of interest in my niece's studies for the stage, and intro¬
duced her extensively.
Jer. Introduced her? To a lot of gormandizing toadies?
Pen. Arabella is the centre of a literary and artistic circle.
Jer. And to think that when I married that girl in Con¬
necticut she could cook more pies in a given time than any
other woman in the State. And now she's lost all her old am¬
bition. How does she get on with the Parley-woos?
Pen. She has eccentricities, but they are looked upon as
proofs of genius.
Jer. Are they? [Crosses e.] Well, I guess Paris is the
place for her. Folks here would laugh over Arabella's poetry.
I heard one fellow in a corner say it was a " hash," and an¬
other fellow in a corner say it was " trash." Ever read any
of it yourself ?
^Pen. No, not altogether. But let's leave the books and
return to the woman. The way she spoke of you and the
children was delightful. She feels, however, that you need a
protector, and she made me promise to take jmu under my
wing and keep you out of danger. So I encouraged your at¬
tentions to Shirley to keep you under my eye. Pretty clever,
wasn't it ?
compassion. I said
THE GKEAT UNKNOWN.
35
Jer. Was Shirley in the secret ?
Pen. Of course.
Jer. \_Goes down l., wickedly.'\ You don't know how grate¬
ful I am. [/SYis, l. c.]
Pen. Here's your wife's last letter. Look at this passage ;
"Continue to watch over my sweet babes and my precious
old Jeremiah." You are her precious old Jeremiah ! \^Pises.^
Jer. [Plattered.^ Yes. I'm her precious old Jeremiah.
Pen. [ Offers him the letter?^ I want you to look at that
" precious." Do you notice any thing particular about it ?
Jer. Yes. It's spelt wrong. [Penelope snatches the letter
from him.'] But spelling was always Arabella's weak
point.
Pen. Never mind the spelling, Look at the word again.
[ Offers letter.]
Jer. \IjOoks at it and spells.] P-R-E-S-I-O-U-S. There's
nothing about it, except a big blot.
Pen. That blot's a tear.
Jer. A tear ! What for ?
Pen. Grief ! at separation.
Jer. Well, instead of weeping over the paper why don't
she come home?
Pen. You don't understand. The muse calls, she obeys Î
But she looks backward at her loved ones and mourns.
Jer. \I)ryly^ I guess Paris is a pretty good place to
mourn in; ain't it? \Gazing admiringly at Penelope.]
Do you know you're an amazingly smart woman ?
Pen. I know I am. And if I can only get you and your
Arabella together again
Jer. \His face falls.] Don't try it. You don't know
Arabella. She's crazv.
Pen. [Mysteriously.] Let me whisper you a secret. She's
coming home.
Jer. Arabella coming home ! When ?
Pen. That's her little surprise. [Adjusting her mantle^
Well, I must be going.
Jer. Let me go with you.
Pen. No. You've run about for me long enough. Besides,
it's not necessary. [Goes to window.] I have an escort.
There he is, in his cab. [Nods and beckons off at window\
Yes, you may. [Gomes down.] He's coming up. Poor
fellow ! He's been out there ever since I came in.
Jer. Whoever it is he must be frozen by this time. [Goes
to fire.¡ L,]
Pen. Oh, he'd willingly freeze for my sake.
36
THE GEEAT UNKNOWN.
Jer. That's heroic. Who is he ?
Pen. Who is he ? Well, he's No. 3.
O'Donnell enters at c., in ulster, the pockets of which are
filled with numerous parcels, and he carries some under
his arms.
Jer, What ? The wild Irishman ?
O'Donnell. \Cheerfully to Jeremiah.] How are you?
Good-morning ! [7b Penelope.] You see I've been around
for you already.
Pen. Poor soul ! You must be chilled through.
O'D. \P]arnestly.'\ To the bone. [^Cheerily.'] But what
of that ? I'll freeze an hour or two longer to please you.
Pen. Never mind. We'll drive home at once. Is my car¬
riage there ?
O'D. Yes. Just returned. I sent it away to have the
foot-warmer rebaked, and to have your umbrella and over¬
shoes brought. And I've got you a nice warm comforter to
wrap around your throat. Would you mind taking it out ?
It's in my right-hand breast-pocket.
Pen. \^Takes out a silk wrap.'] How very thoughtful you
are. \_To Jeremiah.] Ah, Jeremiah, No. 8 is best of all.
[7b O'Donnell, going over to mantel, l.] I'll be ready
directly.
O'D. No hurry. Take your time. \Aside to Jeremiah.]
How do you think I'm getting on ? I'm doing pretty well,
ain't I? Penelope hy a jerk of the head^ The
old 'un can't do without me.
Jer. Well, you do astonish me! Why, you're making a
regular dead set for the old girl.
OD. ^Confidentially^ I have my reasons, Jeremiah. You
see I've taken a particular interest in Mrs. Munkittrick, and
in Ireland we have a proverb, " Ma tas duigean an uig uiaet
greamuig an maitreanfi which means, " If you want the
niece, secure the aunt," and I'm making love to the old girl
for the sake of the young one.
Jer. He, too ! Another victim !
O'D. I think it's a good idea ; don't you ?
Jer. \Aside, crosses, r.] What a chestnut !
Pen. Now I'm ready.
O'D. So am I. [^Looks at her admiringly.] You look
stunning ! 'Pon my soul, you do! Stunning I
Pen. That piece of flattery was too transparent. You
must try again. \Shakes hands with Jeremiah.]
THHE GREAT UNKNOWN.
37
O'D. Now I appeal to you, Jeremiah—don't she look like
a—like a
Jer. Like an old Madeira—yes,
CfD. That's it—like an old Madeira.
Pen. Well, that's something like. That's a compliment
more to my fancy. \^Takes O'Donnell's arm.]
0'7>. How so ?
Pen. Because old Madeira has so little body and such taste.
[She takes him up, and they go up and off, c., laughing.'\ Ha,
ha, ha. Good-by ! [They exeunt^
Jer. [Gazing after them^ Good-by." [Mcits, c.^ So that
romance is over. And I'm afraid it's my last one. Well,
better leave all that nonsense to the boys. [Goes to piano.^
Ah, Arabella ! if you were only as you used to be twenty
years ago, when the worst thing you ever did with pen and
ink was to black your thumb.
Etna enters from b. u. d.
Etna. I've done the thirty. and looks round.'\
Papa, where's Cousin'Neddie gone ? [Down r.]
Jer. What do you want Cousin Neddie for ?
Etna. Nothing! [Confused, but recovering herself^ Lor',
papa, what's the matter with you? Your face is as long as
your arm.
Jer. [Prightening^ Oh, I'm all right. But I've got
something to tell you. Never mind—that'll keep till to¬
morrow.
Etna. No, no. Tell me now. I won't sleep a wink all
night.
Jer. Well, whom would you like most to see ?
Etna. [After an instant's pause, then joy fully.'\ Mamma !
Is she coming? [Jeremiah nocfe.] Coming home? [Claps
her hands.^
Jer. 'Sh ! Not so loud ! It's a secret !
Ekna. I can't help it. Oh, you dear duck of a pana !
[Seizes him and whirls him round.^ Oh, I wish I had her in
my arms now.
Jer. [Releasing himself^ You had better speak to Pansy,
and arrange between you for making her comfortable when
she comes. [ Going, r. Stops, hesitates, then tums.^ For in¬
stance, when she arrives—when she comes—and we are talking
over the times when she was away, if there's anything any¬
body's done that might hurt her feelings to know, we won't
tell her, will we ?
38
the great unknown.
Etna, No, papa. You won't tell on us, will you, papa ?
Jer. No. And we mustn't let any false modesty prevent
us saying a good word for each Other. I for you and you for
me. Etna.
Etna. Oh, we'll stick by each other, papa.
Jer. That's a bargain !
Etna. A bargain.
Jer. And now be good girls and behave ; I'm going to the
club for a little while, [Going up, gets his hat from the
piano.'\ I can drop in at the theatre and see another rehearsal
with that adorable little woman, [Aloud.^ Good-by ! Re¬
member we stick by each other. It's a bargain. Honor
bright. [Exit, c. r.]
Etna. [Calling after him, boisterously.^ Honor bright,
papa.
Ned strolls in from l. arch.
Eed. What a deal of noise.
Ena. Oh, Neddie ! Just fancy ! Mamma's coming home !
Won't we have a splendid time!. Won't we have a house¬
ful of company !
Ned. Yes, probably.
Etna. Won't papa be happy ! Won't we all be proud of
such a famous mamma ! Won't people envy us ! [Gonfden-
tially^ I'm going to get mamma to teach me how to write
novels. I know I could just dash off stories like hers every
day.
Ned. From what I've heard I think you could.
Etna. Don't you be sarcastic. Sir. Anyway, if I can't be
famous myself I won't marry anybody but a distinguished
man. [Throws herself on sofa and cfurls up.'\
Ned. [Leaning over back of sofa.] Do you think that is
indispensable for happiness in marriage?
Etna. Oh, I think marriage is lots of fun without it; but
to have a husband who can write things to set girls crazy; to
have them all pointing him out and saying, " There he is !
Did you see him? Let's hurry ahead and get a good look! "
Oh ! I wouldn't marry anybody else. I'm going to get mamma
to pick me out one from her collection.
Ned. [Smiling and going away^\ I'm sorry. I had other
plans for you.
Ena. You? Plans for me? [flncurling^] About get¬
ting married ? Do you know some one ?
Ned. \ Goes toward mantel^ Perhaps.
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
39
Etna. You're a love ! \Goming behind and patting his
cheeks.'] Who is it? [Takes his arm.] Is he nice-looking?
Ned. [Casting a fugitive glance in the mirror?)^ Oh ! so-so !
Etna. That means he is ! [In ecstasy.] Oh ! oh !
Ñ'ed. [ 'Warningly.] But he's stern !
Etna. [Going aioay, and coquettishly.] Oh, I'll take that
out of him in a week. One thing, and the most important :
Can he dance ? [Emphatically.]
Ned. [Emphatically.] Yes.
Etna. [Resolutely.] Then I'll take him. But why doesn't
he come and speak right out to me?
Ned. I believe he's afraid. «
Etna. [Gayly.] Afraid of me? I like that. Then I'll
keep him under petticoat government all his life.
Ned. Don't tell him so beforehand.
Etna. I should smile ! [Correcting herselfI mean I'm
not such a goose. But, Cousin Neddie, I want you to do me
a favor. Tell me how he'll propose. I want to know what to
do and say. I've heard it's an awful moment, and nobody
that's not been through it can imagine what it is.
O O
Ned. [Becoming serious.] It is a rather bad quarter of an
hour, I believe. Well, I judge it will be something like this :
[He is standing, c., and she is leaning against his shoulder lis¬
tening, hut without looking up at him.] When he finds that
he can no longer live without you, he will come, and taking
your hand, as I do now, he will ask : [ W^ith feeling?^ " Can
you love me ? "
Etna. [Startled; becomes serious, casts down her eyes—with¬
draws her hand, and half shivers^ O—oh! I felt something
all over me then. [Shivers, and looking into his eyes.] If he
asks me like that, I can't possibly say " No." What must I
say?
Ned. Let your heart answer. If you love
Ena. But bow am I to know if I love ?
Ned. By two things : the joy and the pain.
Etna. [Innocently.] Pain—pain, too ?
Ned. The worst in the world—jealousy.
Etna. [Lightly and girlishly.] Oh, Pd never be jealous.
Ned. That will depend. If you are not in love you can't
know jealousy. Now, for instance, if I were to tell you that
I loved a girl, you would feel bad, wouldn't you ?
Ena. Not a bit. [Stage, b.]
Ned. Oh ! [Biting his lip in disappointment]
Ena. [Back to c., naturally.] Because I'd know you
were only joking.
40
the gkeat ünkn0\<^n.
Ned. [Eagerly,^ But if I tell you that I was never more
serious in all my life ?
Etna. \Slightly excited¡\ Truly ? You are really in love?
Ned. [ WarmlyWith all my heart.
Etna. \_Agitated.^ And T never knew it !
Ned. But you are glad, for my sake ?
Etna. \^Struggling with her feeling.'] Oh, certainly. I'm
very glad, of course. Who is it, anyway ?
Ned. Oh, I can't tell you that.
Etna. [ With a big gulp to hide her feelings, and an effort
to laugh.] I think it's funny if you can't tell her name.
Ned. She's an angel !
Etna. [ Vexed^ Oh, yes, of course. \TjOoks at Aim.]
Why, you're all fire and flame, and your eyes look so—you're
actually trembling about the silly thing.
Ned. Remember you are speaking of my future wife.
Ekna. \IIorrified?] Are you going to marry her ?
Ned. If she cares for me.
Etna. But she doesn't—not a bit !
Ned. How do you know ?
Etna. {Laughs contemptuously.] Don't flatter yourself
that every girl that looks at you is in love with you and would
marry you. Nobody could love you, {Crosses l.]
Ned. {Reprovingly.] Oh ! oh !
Etna. I'm going to talk just as I please now. I'm sick and
tired of your schooling and your scolding. [ Crosses l.] You can
keep it for your wife. But mind I won't call her cousin. Never.
She shan't have that satisfaction. How old is she, anyway ?
Ned. {Sinks on sofa.] Oh, a mere child yet.
Etna. {Alarmed.] A child ! Oh, for goodness' sake.
Cousin Ned, don't have her ! {Mildly.] She'll make you
miserable. Depend upon it. {Falteringly?^ And that'll
make me miserable. {Whimpering.] And we'd all be misera¬
ble. {Sinks across his knees?]
Ned. {Softly and half aside.] We know love by the pain.
Etna. {Starts away from him.] I know who it is now.
Ned. {Joyfully.] You do ? {About to take her hand.]
Etna. {Recoiling.] Don't touch me! {Severely.] It's
that Mrs. Munkittrick. '
Ned. Why, what put that idea in your head ?
Etna. {Blinded by her jealousy.] I ought to have seen it
all along Jby the way you meet each other. You speak so
lovingly and seem to have so many secrets together. And
I've seen you kiss her hand as if you were going to eat it up.
Ned. You are utterly mistaken.
the great unknown.
41
Etna. You dare to deny it ! I'm only a girl, but I wouldn't
tell an untruth for the world, since you asked me not to.
And you, a man whom I always looked upon as the best and
noblest creature on earth—you—you—descend to falsehood !
\T\irns from him,'] Oh, Cousin Neddie !
N'edl [On her l.] I shall tell you the truth, Etna. I did
fear to do so once, but now I take courage to confess that my
heart belongs to a very naughty girl ! She has bewitched me—
driven all reason out of my head—made me stand trembling
before her—and left me powerless to find words in which to
say how dearly I love her. If you wish to see her, just look
in the mirror there. That's she ! That saucy creature, with
the roguish eyes, who is just beginning to blush a rosy red—
the first dawn of love.
Etna. [ With trembling joy y looking in the mirror. ] I ?
It is I?
Ned. You, and you alone.
Ena. \^Turns in rapture and falls on his neck.] Oh,
Ned, Ned !
Ned. My dear one !
Etna, I'm so happy! It can't be true! Yes—it is. I
know it, because I love you so dearly. [He presses her to his
heart ; she holds off in his arms so as to speak.] Oh, let me
tell it—let me tell it to you in my own way. I know it's
improper, but just this once.
Ned. Well ?
Etna. [Blurting out.] Cousin Ned, Cousin Ned, I'm
over head and ears in love with you !
Ned. My own ! My wife !
Etna. How sweet that sounds ! Oh, I'm so happy—so
foolishly happy—I must tell somebody. [The door-hell is
heard to ring violently.] There's somebody now. I can't
help it, I must tell 'em,^whoever it is. [Goes, L.j I'm so
happy—s—so—
Arabella enters at c,., in travelling costume. Etna cries out
and runs up to her. Arabella stands, c., in amaze.
Ena. Mamma ! He loves me ! Cousin Ned loves me !
[Embraces Arabella, then runs back and throws herself in
Ned's arms.] Show her how much you love me ! [He embraces
and kisses her. Arabella throws away her bags and bundles
and falls gasping on sofa.]
Curtain.
42
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
ACT III.
Same Scene.—Next morning.
As the curtain rises the stage is empty. Door-bell is heard to
ring twice. Patrick crosses from r. to l., at back.
Enter Ned, yVom the library, in time to meet Penelope
and Mrs. Munkittrick, bowed in by Patrick, who exits.
' Penelope.. Well, how is she ?
Ned. No sign yet.
Pen. Have they tried to see her?
Ned, Yes, Jeremiah, both the girls, and Miss Twitters. But
the illustrious lady will see no one. Her French maid holds
the fort. Here she is now.
Agathe enters from r., and comes foricard as if to go off, l. d.
Penelope meets her.
Pen. Did you see that Mrs. Jarraway got the card we left
this morning early ?
Agathe. Oui, madame. But madame's orders were that
she not be disturbed—not be distract till she give further in¬
structions.
Mrs. Munkittrick. [r.] Is Mrs. Jarraway so ill ?
Aga. Madame need repose—quiet absolute. I am taking
her some tea now. \Exit, l. d.]
Pen. What's the use of our staying now ?
Ned. Yes, yes, do remain. You have come to make her a
friendly call, and I beg you won't let her alone until she sur¬
renders. Besides, there may be need of some strategy on be¬
half of poor Jeremiah, and he'll want all his forces and allies.
\Grosses to Mrs. Munkittrick.] You don't have a rehearsal
to-day, do you ?
Mrs. M. Not to-day.
Ned. Then do remain. I'll report at intervals. If you feel
lonely, why have up O'Donnell. He's in a cab at the corner
with his eyes on the window.
Mrs. M. Is he ? [Penelope goes to window.^ What a
bore that man has become! \^Crosses to i..\ Don't let him
see you, Auntie. He must be taught a lesson, so I'll remain.
[Puts her hat and veil on sofa, and sits at piano.^
THE GEEAT UNKNOWN.
43
Ned. We'll have to have a council of war presently to con¬
sider the quickest mode of storming the French fortress. I
must go and ruminate. \Eix,it8, l. arcA.]
Mrs. M. [c. To Penelope.] Do come away from the
window, Auntie.
Pen. No, I won't. You come and give the poor fellow the
charity of a glance.
Mrs. M. It will be too much encouragement.
Pen. Nonsense ! It's worth while doing it just to see him
smile. When he smiles he's twice as handsome. \After kissing
her hand to Aim.] You ought to see him now.
Mrs. M. {Playing softly on the piano.^ I actually believe
you're in love with him.
Pen. So I am. [ Coming forwardi\ I've taken him to my
heart, and any one who gets as far as that doesn't get away
easily. Ah, my dear, I know a thoroughly good fellow when
I see him. When a woman is left a widow at thirty—as I
was—and not a bad-looking widow either, if I do say it my¬
self, and remains a widow till her hair gets gray, she learns
something about men. {Points to window^ That young
fellow is one in a thousand, and when I hear him speak of you
and listen to his praises
Mrs. M. Oh, Auntie !
Pen. He's desperately in love with you. I'll tell you, if
he's afraid to. But there—let's talk of something else.
{Pause, during which Mrs. Munkittrick continues to play a
soft love strain. Suddenly Penelope rises, goes to Mrs. Mun¬
kittrick, and with sudden emotion kisses her on the hrow.^
Ah ! You'll be a happy wife, my dear.
Mrs. M. {Stops playing and comes forward, l., going
toward the fire, putting a hand on the mantle and a foot on
the fender."] Don't raise my hopes, Auntie dear. He hasn't
spoken a word so far.
Pen. [/Sîïs, L. c.] Because you never allow him to be
alone with you. How can he talk with an old dragon like
me constantly by ? That's the reason there's so little marry¬
ing nowadays. The young people can't get a word alone to¬
gether. Leave them alone and see how quickly they'll come to
an understanding. It was my case. My dear old mamma
was by all the time, and if I hadn't helped my poor Benjamin
we'd have been there yet.
Mrs. M. Helped him ? How did you do that ?
Pen. {After a quiet chuckle to herself] I'll tell you.
We had a little globe in our parlor, just like this one on the
table here. I was showing it to Benjamin quite innocently,
44
the great unknown.
[^Illustrates with the globe on the table as she speaks."] and
turning it round and round, when, suddenly I put my finger
on a little bit of an island like this, in the great ocean, and I
said, " I suppose there are happy people even there. Do you
think you could be happy there, Benjamin?" Now what
could the poor fellow answer but one thing: "Yes, I could
—with you ! " and he seized my hand; the globe was knocked
over, mamma investigated the disturbance, gave us her bless¬
ing, and we were married in a fortnight. [They rise."]
Mrs. M. [At L. table. lMughs.'\ Weil, don't let your se¬
cret get out, or there will be what papa would call a corner
in globes.
Pen. You try it the next time you find yourself alone with
O'Donnell. I'll manage to leave you together somehow. I'll
make an excu.se to feed the parrot, or something.
Mrs. M. [Rises quickly.^ No, no, please. Auntie, I don't
know my own mind yet. And I don't want to give up my
ambition for the first man that comes along, even if I like him.
I do like O'Donnell, [Going m/>.] but whether I like him
well enough to—I don't know.
Patrick enters^ c. e.
Patrick. There's a gentleman below,' ma'am. Asked me to
hand you this card. He's been waiting outside in a cab some
time.
Pen. [Takes cardl\ It's he !
Mrs. M. This is provoking ! I shall forbid him to see me
at all.
Pen. [Crosses to her.'\ Here's something written on the
card, " I have a message for you." It may be important !
Hadn't you better see him? [With a look at Patrick.]
The servants may think it singular if you order him away.
Mrs. M. As you please. [ Goes to pianoi]
Pen. [To Patrick.] Show the gentleman in. [Patrick
exits, c.] Now smooth your brow and don't frown. [Äii« by
ßre.]
Mrs. M. Don't you attempt to go and feed any parrot, or
leave me alone with him under any circumstances. [Penel¬
ope goes to the fire, Mrs. Munkittrick sits at piano to
play. O'Donnell appears at c. and e., with Patrick, to
whom he surrenders his hat and coat, and comes forward^
CDonnell. I'm afraid I've taken a liberty.
Mrs. M. I thought you gave me your promise
O'D. Not to call at your house every day. I did. But I
the geeat unknown.
45
thought as this wasn't your house, it mightn't be considered
a call, don't you see?
Pen. \Seated atßre.'\ You are quite right. What a clever
lawyer you'd have made !
Ö'Z). No, I'm afraid not ; for I can't summon up pluck
enough to plead a cause, no matter how much I want to win
it. [To Mes. Munkittkick, ^cho still continues to playi\ I
hope I'm not in the way.
Mrs. M. Not in my way. [ Goes on playing^
Pen. Won't you sit down ?
OP. I will. You are very good. timidly at e. c.]
Pen. [After an awkward pause, during which he timidly
turns to look at Mes. Munkitteick, and Penelop.e looks at
him ; then she turns to look at Mes. Munkitteick, and
O'Donnell turns and looks at Penelope, and Penelope
finally turns and sees O'Donnell looking at her.'\ You are
very quiet this morning.
O'D. Oh, I've a lot to say ; [/Siojos.] but I don't know
how to bring it in. [Looks aioay and around, e., as if seek'
ing inspiration. Penelope rises softly, and carries the
globe from the table at which she is sitting over to table at e.,
beside O'Donnell. His eyes have not wandered around to l.,
and he has not observed the action^
Pen. Shirley, dear, won't you stop pla3 Íng a moment ? I
want you to look at something here. [Mes. Munkitteick
rises and comes forward, and O'Donnell, in rising to meet
her, nearly upsets the table and globe, bows awkwardly, and
gets round to e. of table^
OP. I beg pardon. [He has caught the globe with his
hands to save it.'\
Pen. Oh, you didn't injure it. [He places the globe on
tahle^ Pretty little globe, isn't it ?
OP. It is. [Begins to turn it.']
Pen. [Aside to Mes. Munkitteick, urging her into the
chair by tabled] He's getting there.
Mrs. M. [ISmiling, and aside to Penelope.] Perhaps he's
been there.
OP. [Sitting l. of table, and still turning the globe, but
speaking to Mes. Munkitteick.] What a precious little bit
of a spot the world is, after all, isn't it ?
Mrs. M. [Smiling, and entering into the spirit of the
thing, and turning the globe.] Very. And how little land
there is for so much water !
OP. [Ihrning the globe.] Yes, there's a great deal of
water.
46
the great unknown.
Pm. {Turning the glohe.\ Yes, and what little bits of
islands in all that water.
OD. {Turning theglohe.^ Yes, and here's a little one all
by itself.
Pen. {TViumphantly, aside.'] He's got there.
O^D. {Reflectively, looking at the glohe?^ I've often thought
—haven't you—that if two people were to find themselves alone
on a little island like that—away from everybody—they'd be
horribly bored, don't you know ? Wouldn't they ? Don't you
think so ? {Looks from one to the other. Penelope gives up
in despair ; Mrs. Munkittrick bursts out in a jit of laughter;
O'Donnell looks at her in distress.] I suppose I've said some¬
thing very funny.
Mrs. M. {Laughing^ Oh, very.
OD. I don't see the laugh myself.
Mrs. M. {Pises.] No. As Captain Cuttle says, " the
point of it lies in the application."
O'D. Can't you let a chap in ?
Mrs. M. Oh, never ! {Going l.]
O'D. [ To Penelope, who comes down to remove the globe.]
You'll tell me ?
Pen. Stupid fellow ! [ Carries the globe to its original
place, and sits by the fire, l., with her back to them.]
Mrs. M. {Gentler tone, to O'Donnell.] Forgive me for
laughing. It was very rude.
O'Z). {In loto tone to her.] I don't mind. I've probably
said something sijly. And I'm extremely sorry, because I'd
like you to have a good opinion of me.
Mrs. M. Do you really value my good opinion ?
OD. Why shouldn't I say it ? I do. In Ireland we have
a proverb which means, "If you want to leap over a ditch,
and are afraid, throw your heart over first and then jump."
And that's what I'm doing now. I've taken my heart in both
hands, and thrown it over to you, and why shouldn't I jump
after it now ? I adore the very ground you walk on, and I
only wish I could prove it some way. Can I fight any body
for you ?
Mrs. M. Why, I never knew you could be so impas¬
sioned I
0'D. I never knew it myself before. I never was till now.
But it's you that's made me. I—I wish you would like me
a little.
Mrs. M. Are you so badly off for friendship ?
OD. Oh, I've lots of friends—horses, dogs, and children
all like me, but
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
47
Mrs. M. That's a good sign. Well, you may add that I
like you.
O'D. Do you ? And may I hope to— \^Folloio8 her and
puts an arm about her waist. She releases herself as she sees
Penelope.]
Mrs. M. [Looking shyly at Penelope.] Auntie !
Pen. Yes, dear.
Mrs. M. Have you fed the parrot yet ?
Pen. [ Turns suddenly, and sees the situation, jumps up,
and in a joyful tone¡\ I declare I haven't ! But I'll do it
right away. [Exit quickly, l. arcA.]
Mrs. M. [After a short pause.'\ Well ?
O'D. [Roiising himself] Yes !
Mrs. M. What makes you so silent all of a sudden ?
O^D. I was thinking.
Mrs. M. [Rising slowly.] Thinking ?
O'D. Yes. 1 was thinking of my grandmother. She was
a good old soul. And she used to say to me, " O'Donnell,
if you" want to know whether a girl likes you, you can find
out in three ways."
Mrs. M. [Half turning axoay^ And what were they ?
O'D. "Write her a letter, and wait till you get her an¬
swer ; or take her out for a drive or a walk, and she's sure to
show it before you get back—or— " [Pause^
Mrs. M. Well? Number three ?
OD. " If you're in a hurry, and.can't wait, fall on her neck
and give her a kiss." [He makes a step forward. Mrs. Mun-
kittrtck retreats a step and keeps an eye on him.] What do
you think of my grandmother ?
Mrs. M. Well, you see I don't know her.
But you know me. [Darts at her. She flies up stage
and is met by Patrick, who enters with an envelope^
Patrick. A messenger boy brought this.
Mrs. M. [Grosses to Patrick.] How on earth did they
know I was here? [Has opened the letter and reads.] It's
from the theatre. They want me right away. Patrick, give
me my hat and wrap. [He does 50.J And call a cab for me,
please. [Patrick exits, c. r.]
O'D. I'm sorry you.'ve got to go away. I had some¬
thing more to tell you that my grandmother
Mrs. M. No time for that now. [Holds both ends of her
veil behind her head toward him.] Here, tie my veil !
O'D. W^ith pleasure. [Does so.]
Mrs. M. Tie it tightly.
O'D. Yes. [Kisses her hands as they rest on her hair.]
48
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
Mrs. M. Oh, do behave. [praws on her gloves while
O'Donnell ties her ve^7.]
O'D. I couldn't help it. When a man sees a hand like
that, he can't behave—especially if he's an Irishman. I say,
this would be a good chance to try my old gr.mdmother's
third plan. \PuUing her wrap over her shoulders."]
Mrs. M. [Jumps aioay from hivn.] Stop ! Where's my
muff ?
O'D. [ Gets the muff from chair up stage, b., and offers it
with his hand inside.] Here it is.
Mrs. M. Thank you. Sorry to give you so much trouble.
[Puts her hand to take the muff. He grasps it.]
O'P. It's no trouble at all.
Mrs. M. [Snatches her hand away and goes up c.] Good-by.
O'D. I'm going too. [Hurries up after Aen]
Mrs. M. No—no—no.
O'D. But I must talk to you. I can't wait.
Mrs. M. You must wait till I come back.
0'Z>. May I ? [Seizes her hand to kiss it.] You darling!
Mrs. M. And when you write to your grandmother, give
her my regards. [Exit, c. and l., laughing, as Penelope en¬
ters l. arcA.]
Pen. Oh, you darlings ! [Looking after Mrs. Munkit-
trtck.] I could just hug her !
Hug me ! [Penelope comes down and embraces him
heartilyThat's the way. [Returns the hug and goes tip c.\
I'm going to write to my grandmother for further particulars.
[Ekcit, c. and r.]
Pen. Thank goodness, she'll have him, and then I can end
my days in peace.
Etna. [Heard off, l.] Don't ! don't !
Pen. What's that ?
Etna runs in from l. arch.
Etna. He's such a torment. ^
Pen. Who ?
Etna. Cousin Ned—and he's so conceited—but he's nice.
[Äiis in chair and holds up her finger, on which a diamond
ring sparkles.] See what he's just given me.'
Pen. A ring !
Etna. An engagement ring.
comes irC from i..' arch.
Isn't it a beautyl?
Pen. You are engaged ?
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
49
Ned, {^Coming forward.^ Yes.
Pen. \G%mng a hand to each!\ Well, rny dears, I'm de¬
lighted. I congratulate you.
Etna. And I congratulate myself.
Ned. \Beside Etna.J Are you happy ?
PJtna. Can you ask ? \^He wants to embrace Aer.J There—
that will do for the moment. Are yon, happy ?
Ned. Can you ask ? \IIe seizes and kisses her before she
can escape, and then takes up his hat and is going ojf.^
Ena. Where are you going like that ?.
Ned. I have an appointment.
Ena. An appointment—without asking me ? Now, Ned¬
die, let's settle this thing at the start.
Ned. Settle what thing ?
Pen. Why, Etna, child !
Etna. \ Crosses, to Penelope.] Now, Auntie, don't in¬
terfere. [Th Ned.] I'm not a child any more, and you
mustn't expect to have all your own way any longer. I'm
eighteen years old now, and for eighteen years I've been duti¬
ful and obedient. Now it's your tin^e ; you've got to obey me
for eighteen years !—then, maybe, your turn will come again.
[ Crosses, r.]
Ned. \l\irning to Penelope.] She's a witch. [To
Etna.] Well, I'm agreeable. What shall I do ?
Ena. Well, first and foremost, go and find papa. Tell
him what we've arranged about mamma, and don't leave him
a minute alone. Understand ?
Ned. Fully; and if you will permit me a remark, the ap¬
pointment I referred to was with your father, who is waiting
for me in his room to receive our latest report [7b Penel¬
ope. ] about Arabella. \Ehit, r. 1 d.]
Etna. [Looking after him • then to Penelope.] Isn't he
handsome, Auntie ? Do tell me he's handsome.
Pen. Why, certainly, child.
Ena. Don't you think we'll be a splendid-looking couple ?
[With solemnity.^ How lucky I am! Oh, Auntie, how I
used to long for a sweetheart, ever since the days when Miss
Twitters used to warn us to look out for the big bad man
that's always going about carrying off young girls. And I've
obeyed Miss Twitters so faithfully. I've looked out for that
big bad man for years, wondering when he'd come, and he has
come at last—the dear bad man. [Crosses ¿oPenblôpe. Ned
re-enters, r. 1 d., with Jeremiah, whose appearance is decided¬
ly dejected and apprehensive.] Oh, papa, why didn't you wait
till we sent for you ?
50
the geeat unknown.
Jer. I couldn't. My nervous system is a complete wreck.
My friends, a terrible presentiment has taken possession of me :
I'm afraid Arabella is designedly withholding herself until we
are all so demoralized that she can descend upon us and conquer
us all at one swoop.
Pen. Then, what's to be done ?
Ned. Nothing until we are sure. But when we are su^e,
I have a scheme. Who will help me?
Pen. I will.
Etna. So will I.
Ned. [lb Etna.] I want Pansy, [lb Penelope.] And
your niece.
Pen. I'll answer for Shirley.
Etna. And I'll manage Pansy.
Ned. Then keep your own counsel and I'll unfold it as
soon as it becomes necessary.
Jer. Don't do anything rash.
Ned. Rash ? No. But the happiness of too many people
is at stake to suffer us to humor one sickly fancy. All we
want is to bring her to reason. She is absolutely ignoring the
fact that for four years she has been in the wrong in thus
neglecting her husband, her children, and her household !
Well, we must enlighten her.
Jer. You can't do it. Excuse me, young man, but I've
known her longer than you have.
Ned. [^Smiling.^ Knowing her is one thing, knowing how
to manage her is quite another.
Jer. Manage her? You might as well try to turn a flap¬
jack with a hat-pin. That woman has two resources—iron
resolution and hysterics ! The first enables her to grasp any¬
thing; the second prevents anybody grasping her.
Ned. We'll see.
Agathe enters from l. door with an armful of cushions and
wraps.
Look out ! [Aside to others. All separate and look on.]
Jer. Is—is your mistress getting up ?
Agathe. Madame is coming down. [ArrangespiUows and
footstool hy fire, l.]
Jer. We'll be overjoyed to see her. We'll
Ag. Madame requests me to say that she will send for
Monsieur when her nerves are quite restored. Madame will
also send for the demoiselles when she is prepared to receive
them. [Pkcit, l. d.]
THE GEEAT UNKNOWN.
51
Jer. Did you hear that ?
Ned. We shall have to put my scheme into operation ät
once.- Disappear. I'll explain outside. \Urging them off,
R. ID.]
Pen. [ With resolution.'] I mean to stay right here and
take the -first shock.
.Etna. {Taking Jeremiah's arm; he is quite depressed.]
Come, papa, we'll wait till we're sent for.
Jer. I feel my knees knocking together.
Ned. My plan will stiffen your joints. {They all go off,
r. I e., except Penelope.]
Pen. [aSo/ím.] The cool impudence of some women passes
belief. Here's a wife and a mother who lets her family go to
rack and ruin, yet wants to rule them with her whims and ca¬
prices.
Agathe enters, l. d., holding the door open,
Agathe. It's only a step further, madame.
Arabella enters in a very aesthetic wrapper—exceedingly jv'
venile toilette.
Arabella. I trust we are alone ! [Ts led to the chair by the
fire.] Oh ! Aggat, I shall expire !
—Arabella is an extremely illiterate woman, who has
been crazed by flattery. She sinks into the arm-chair and
is refreshed by Agathe xcith a flaçon of salts, fanning,
etc. Aga-TH^ places footstool more conveniently.]
Pen. [ Viewing the scene with impatience.] Pah ! I must
speak or I shall burst. {Gomes forward^ Well, Arabella,
baven't you a word for an old friend ?
Ara. {Still inhaling the salts.] Oh, is that you ? How
good of you to come. But you always were a dear old thing.
Pen. How are you feeling now, you dear old thing ?
Ara. Oh, wretchedly ! My nerves are all unstrung. I wa&
so well until I set foot in America, and then there was some¬
thing in the air that made me collapse.
Pen. {Throwing off her feeling of disgnst^ Oh, the air's
all right ; it's only bad for shams. We'll bring you around
as soon as you get to work.
Ara. Oh, I couldn't work, dear ! My brain is quite unequal
to the task. I could projuice nothing worthy of me.
52
THE GREA.T UNKNOWN.
Pen. I don't mean that stuff. I mean good, hearty work
—going through your house, looking up your husband's com¬
forts and your children's wants—getting things in order.
Ara. You positively terrify me, Penelope. Those things
are for coarser natures. My atmosphere is the empyrean.
Would you clip my wings ?
Pen. [MiseSy decidedly.^ Yes, I would—like an old hen's
that's always flying over the fence.
Ara. l^Curtly, and with suppressed vigor^ Suppose we
change the subject. Aggat, a dozenge. [Agathe offers her
a box and she helps herself.^
Pen. Let's change—with all my heart. It's too disagree¬
able. Have you seen your husband ?
Ara. I shall send for him presently. Is he quite well ?
Pen. I don't know what he is by this time, after waiting
hours to see you. You ought to be ashamed.
Ara. ■ [ With light laugh, imitating high-bred indifference.'\
Poor dear ! How he dotes on me ! Ah ! if he would onlv be
brought to recognize the difference that separates us—the gulf
that divides us. Why does he try to soar? It is my province
to soar, not Jeremiah's. Ah, Penelope, that man ought to
have fixed his affections upon one of commoner clay.
Pen. Ought he? Well, how about your children ?
Ara. Pansy I have not seen. Etna.< has given me such a
shock. The mere recollection makes me faint. Aggat—the
flacon !
Pen. A shock ? How ? Because she's engaged ?
Ara. Because I found her grown so ! Such a size ! Why,
they were children in pinafores when I left. They are posi¬
tively the problems of my future. I must prepare myself be¬
fore I see and study them.
Pen. Arabella, those children have grown like weeds in a
double sense. You have much to reproach yourself for.
Ara. If they are children of nature—unconventional, un¬
constrained—I shall be satisfied.
Pen. Well, I think you'll be satisfied. \_Ooe8 up."]
Jeremiah is here seen to enter, r. 1 e., urged on by Ned, who
pushes him forward.
Ned. Brace up I Go for her ! Now's your time ! [Pushes
him forward, and exits, r. 1 e.]
Jer. [Summoning up courage after two or three attempts,
and advancing.^ Arabella ! — Arabella ! ! — Arabella ! ! !
[ Close to her.'\
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
53
Ara. [Gives qitite a shriek and a start.^ Meroy ! What's
that ?
Jer. [Close to her^ It's I ! Your Jeremiah ! Your pre¬
cious old Jeremiah ! [He advances with outstretched arms."]
Ara. Don't ! Please don't come any nearer ! [Eyes him
through her lorgnette^ Oh, you darling ! You are looking
so well ! I must— [Mises.^ Yes, I must—shake hands with
you, [Extends her gloved hand ; he touches it gingerly^ with
a look back at Penelope.] , Still the same dear old common¬
place thing—aren't you, dear ? [Looks at him through her
glasses^
Jer. [Sinks hack into seat, quite chopfallen.'\ Yes, dear, I
suppose so.
Ara. [Sinking back into her seat, affectedly.^ And how
have you been amusing yourself this long while ?
Jer. [Pulling himself together, and trying to assume a gay
air.^ Oh, so so !
Ara. Have you been a naughty boy? I must have the
whole truth. Aggat, give me the medicated bone-hones !
[Agathe produces a silver bonbonniére¡\ Have you been
very gay ? How many sirens have captured your susceptible
heart ? [Jeeemiah looks at Penelope, who throws up her
hands in disgust.^ Ah, I can't blame you if your fancy has
strayed to creatures of an earthlier mould—to someone utterly
unlike me.
Jer. into seat, l. c.] Oh, I think I could get along
well enough with you, Arabella, if you'd let me.
Ara. My poor Jeremiah—we are separated by a gulf !
Jer. Are we ? How did you get over it ? [Rises.^ Non¬
sense ! Let's go back to old times, Arabella, when there was
less poetry and more pie. [Growing familiar and folly.
You remember those Thanksgiving pies you used to bake, and
the crullers and the doughnuts? Eh? Come, let's get back
to the old home and the old times, and live in 'em until we
get this literary malaria out of your system, and then start
fresh. Will you ? [Stage, e ]
Ara. [Compassionately^ I see, Jeremiah, that we shall
have to come to an understanding before we go a step further.
Sit down. [He sti«.] You must recollect, my dear, that I am
a distinguished woman in the realms of literature. But I
have to pay for it. I can have no humble joys. Read my
last book, "Titania Married," and you will see our respective
positions graphically portrayed. Have you read "Titania
Married ? "
Jer. No, I haven't.
54
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
Ara. That tells the entire story of oiir mental divorce.
Go, Jeremiah ! Be happy ! I shall preside over your house
like a bright spirit that descends to fill it with radiance. But
we must not mingle !
Jer. But, Arabella
Ara. Jeremiah, are you capable of worshipping a brigbt
and inaccessible star ?
Jer. Is that what I must do ?
Ara. Alas, my poor dear, it is.
Jer. [Rises.^ Oh, hang it all, Arabella
Ara. Be comforted, my poor moth, and don't burn your
wings
Jer. \^Going up.'\ Well, I'll be
Pen. [^Aside, hoiling."] I can't keep in much longer !
Ned enter8y r. 1 d., blithely.
Ned. Oh ! Ah ! Why, therè you are, both together !
How exceedingly gratifying to find you reunited. Accept
ray felicitations upon your return, my dear Mrs. Jarraway.
And permit me to seize upon this earliest opportunity to
prefer a request which comes from the depths of my heart,
and which concerns your daughter Etna. I know that I have
your consent, my dear Mr. Jarraway.
Jer. I don't know. Don't ask me ! Ask Arabella. I'm
nobody here—nothing—only a moth ! \^Goes up in a rage.^
Ara. Jeremiah, love, be quiet. [Tb Ned.] I will give your
request consideration. I have already received communica¬
tions from Pansy, and from a person named— [^Holds out
her hand to Agathe, who gives her a reticule, from which she
takes a letter and eyes it through her lorgnette^ a person
named—" Tom." I shall give tho matter consideration. I
must first see my girls and study them. If they are inclined
to develop a high artistic or literary taste, you and—a—Tom
must look somewhere else. My girls shall be twin stars fol¬
lowing their mother's meteoric flight. [Jeremiah wakes a
despairing gesture to Ned, and the latter gives way to Pe¬
nelope, who comes forward.\
Pen. ^Trying to control herself at ßrst^ You poor mis¬
guided soul ! If I've kept in so long, it's because I thought
you had a heart, and that it would make itself known. But
you haven't. You keep your children at arm's length, and
you're willing to let your husband go to the dogs, and all
because—why ? Because you imagine yourself a genius,,when
you haven't any more sense than that table. [^Raps ¿¿.]
Ara. [Has been smiling in a condescending and compos-
the great unknown.
55
»ionate manner upon Penelope up to this pointy now changes
suddenly, with a cry of pretended pain.^ Oh I Aggat !
Ag. i^Quickly, down r. of Penelope.] Oh, madame !
[Applies restoratives.'] You have killed her ?
Pen. [ TPáwes Agathe away.] You stand aside and let
me finish.
Ara. [Hysterically.] Ow ! Ow !
Pen. Oh, you can cry " ow " as much as you like, I am
going to say my say. What has all your ink-wasting brought
you ? Who reads your foolish stuff ? Who buys it ? Nobody.
[Arabella try s to clutch Agathe and the flacon. Penelope
interposes.] Everybody makes fun of you, except your poor
deluded husband, who'd lie down and let you walk over him.
You take my advice. Stick to him. Love him. Obey him.
Sew on his buttons. Darn his stockings.
Ara. [Punctuates each sentence with a vicious ejaculation.]
Ow! Ow!
Pen. You a famous woman ? You ? Because you waste
whole reams of paper and gallons of ink telling what has
been better told a hundred times before ! Ha ! I knew a
really famous woman ! She was the wife of my shoemaker,
and had ten boys, and she'd have had eleven if the last hadn't
turned out a girl. She was a famous woman ! There—I've
had my say, and I'm done. [ Goes up, c.] When you want
to hear some more truth, send for me ! [Exit, c. l.]
Ara. [Äii« bolt upright^ Never let that woman enter my
house again ! [Falls hack.] Ow ! Ow !
Ag. Ah, poor madame ! [Turns her chair round so that
the hack is to audience and applies restoratives.]
Ned. [Aside to Jeremiah.] Well, are you willing my
scheme should be tried now ? Have you any compunctions ?
Jer. None. Do what you think best to secure Etna's
happiness and your own.
Ned. [Takes his hand^ Thank you ; and yours, and
your wife's too. I hope to manage even that.
Jer. Well, don't take too big a contract. You get Etty
away from this house. I'll get Pansy away too. But leave
us. We are doomed. [Crosses, c.]
Ned. Oh, not so bad as that !
Jer. Yes, it is. We are going in the old rut. The literary
female is rampant once more. " Alpha and Omega " are
looming up again. [ With a sudden burst of frenzy.] If one
of those reptiles dares to call me " Omega " I'll brain him with
a chunk of his own density.
Ned. [Trying to quiet him.] Be calm.
56
THE GREAT UNKNOWN,
• Jer. [Altered tone.\ But why should 1 brain him V It
isn't his fault—it's mine. [Solemnly¡\ Young fellow, you
are going to be married—let me give you a piece of advice.
Be loving, kind, and good to my girl. She deserves it. She's
a good girl, in spite of a few faults. Be forbearing—forgive
her. If she should be cross at times, as women will-—forgive
her. Fond of dress—extravagant ?—forgive her. If some
popinjay tries to pay her too. much attention, kick him out
and forgive her. But if you ever catch her in her room, at her
desk, pen in hand, and her fingers smeared with ink, adding
her little drop to the bottomless sea of trashy literature—don't
forgive her. Pitch pen, ink, and paper into the ßre, and bun¬
dle her off to the kitchen! Then lock yourself in your own
room and ask your conscience whether you haven't been to
blame in some neglect, some indifference. If you have, call
her back —ask her pardon—then take her out to Delmonico's ;
open a bottle of champagne and drink the first toast to your
father-in-law. [Offers his hand.^ Or, what's better, put an-
otlier bottle on ice and send for me. I'll come. [Exit, b. 1 d.]
lied. [A'ées him off, then comes forward to Arabella.]
May I ask the favor of a decision ?
Ara. Not now. [She is wheeled around to face thefront.^
Would you kindly tell tiie servant to ask the young ladies to
come to me ? [Ned rings hell on table, l.] I am now prepared
for the ordeal.
Patrick enters, c. and r.
Ned. Patrick ! [ Winks at Afm.] Ask the young ladies
to come here. Their mamma wishes to inspect them.
Patrick. [Returning the wink.'\ If you please, sir, the
young ladies are in their class-room, at their studies, and
they are in their morning dishabilly.
Ned. [Winks ai Patrick.] Their mamma wishes to see
them—just as they are—at once—you understand—just as
they are. .
Pat. Yes, sir. [Exit, r. u. d.]
Ned. [To Arabella.] I cannot, much as I should wish it,
remain to witness the charming reunion of a mother and her
daughters.
Ara. [Rises.^ Oh, pray stay. There is nothing but what,
I trust, would elevate and purify the beholder. [Panst is
heard outside singing a enaich from some recent burlesque or
opera.] Goodness gracious ! what's that ?
Ned. [Solemnlyi\ The enchantment begins. [Rows and
exits, c.]
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
57
Pansy hursts in from r. u. d., her head frowsy, with a long
apron reaching from the neck to her knees, short child's
skirts, slate in hand, with arithmetic tied to it by a string.
Pansy. Hello, ma! Oh, ain't I glad to see you! \fMakes
a rush for Arabella, who sits up horror-stricken and waves
her frantically away,]
Ara. Stop her ! Stop her !
Ag. Please, mademoiselle— [Interposes to keep Pansy
off-']
Pan. Who are you holding? Let me go to my ma!
[Breaks loose and flings herself on her knees, and in Arabel¬
la's lapi\ Oh, ain't I just glad to see you !
Ara. Gracious heavens ! Did any one ever see such a
fright ! Are you my child ? What's the matter with your
hair? Who keeps you in such a state ? Where's your sister?
Etna enters, r. u. d.
Etna. Here T am, ma. [She enters, with a very firm and
rapid step. Her hair drawn hack and plastered over her face,
and drawn down in two old-fashioned long hraids. She is en¬
veloped in a long apron, reaching to her ankles, and tied round
her skirts. Has a slate and hook like Pansy's. Walks up
to Arabella in a quick, husinessdike way.] How are you ?
I'm glad you've got home. I think it's about time.
Ara. [ Gazes from one to the other.] I think it is, too. I'm
glad to see at least that you have some sense of .propriety in
dress and deportment.
Etna. Oh, deportment's my strong hold. [To Pansy, seiz¬
ing her hy the hair.] Get up off your knees. Miss. [Pansy
shrieks, Etna lets go of her.]
Ara. Good heavens ! Don't hurt your sister.
Ekna. [Bluhhering.] She's always hurting me. I'm black
and blue all over from her. She's so strong.
Ara. My children, for goodness' sake, sit down, and let me
speak to you. Sit down. [They hoth drop instantly on the
floor.] I don't mean that. Get up. [They stand holt up¬
right before her.] When I saw you yesterday, Etna, although
I was shocked, you had at least the appearance of a vouno*
lady.
Etna. I know I had. That's because I wanted to please
Cousin Ned. I always behave for him. He treats me well.
I'd behaved for you if you lîad taken any notice of me-last
night. Pa and I waited for hours outside your door, but you
58
ïhb great unknown.
locked yourself in your room. At last I said, " Let's go it,"
and I went it ; didn't I, Pansy ?
Pan. You bet. \To Arabella..] Oh, ma, you oughter
seen sis. She was at her best : summersaults all over the bed.
Ara. Silence ! Something is wrong here ! Something is
wrong I
Etna. Not with us ! There are no flies here ! There may
be one or two on you, but there are no flies on us !
Ara. Do you know anything?
Ena. Miss Twitters says we know too much ! [She and
Pansy burst out laughing.^
Ara. I insist upon your attending to me. Have you any
education whatever ? Do you read ? Are you acquainted
with the lights of literature ? Who was Shakspere ? Answer
me, Etty. [Etna remains sUent.\ Pansy, who was Shak¬
spere ?
Pan. I know ! The statue in the park !
Ara. [Overcome^ Oh !
Pan. {^Tantalizing her sister.Aha! aha! I knew and
you didn't !
• Ara,. Go and send Miss Twitters here this instant. She
shall not remain in this house.
Ena. She's gone already.
Ara. Gone ?
Ena. Yes. I chalked her back, and she slanged me and
said she couldn't remain here without lowering her dignity.
Ara. Do you know anything ? Do you dance? Do you
sing ? Do you play ?
Ena. Pansy was learning to play the piano, but that's all
up now. She's going to marry the teacher. I say. Pansy, I
wouldn't let him teach me after I was married. I'd kick.
Pan. Oh, one key-banger is enough in the family. I say,
Etty, let's give ma a break-down. PU clap. [Begins to pat
her knees and sing a walk-around. Etna darts up to begin^
while Arabella rocks herself in despair and puts her handx to
her ear«.]
Ara. Stop them. Pansy stop that. Aggat, stop that
girl ! [Both girls flop into chairs and fan themselves with
their aprons.']
Ena, Phew, ma ! But it's hot !
Ara. Oh ! oh ! oh ! I don't know whether Pm awake or
dreaming. My children, you have killed me !
Pan. [Starting up.] Oh, cheer up, ma ! We'll entertain
you. I say, Etty, I'll tell you !—let ma see you turn a sum¬
mersault !
the geeat tnknown.
59
Etna, \Aa Ababella screams.'] All right ! \^Takes a
step hack to comply^ when Aeabbixa dashes up and seizes
her on one side, while Agathe Ao/c?« her on the other.] What's
the matter ?
Ara. [ Vigoro%isly.] Go to your room ! This instant !
Both of you !
Pan. Ob, ma ! The fun's just begun.
Ara, To your room, Miss !
Etna. All right. Come along, Pansy. [They dance öff^
e. u. d., arm in arm, Ababella reels into another seat, sup¬
ported by Agathe.]
Ara. Oh, my head! My poor head! Where is Jeremiah ?
Where is he ?
Penelope enters, c. and l.
Penelope. Is anything the matter?
Ara. Anything the matter? The world's upside down.
Oh, my poor Jeremiah, what he must have suffered ! Oh,
my dear friend, do go and tell him to come to me !
Pen. He is coming—but you had better not see him. Oh,
Arabella, why did you give him that wicked advice ?
Ara. [Feebly?^ What advice ?
Pen. Come away! [Jb Agathe.] Bring her away. [Urges
Arabella, assisted by Agathe, to door, l.]
Jer. [Heard outside, c. l.] My darling, do not fly from me.
Jfrs, Munkittrick. [Outside.^ Dear Jeremiah—leave me.
Ara. Jeremiah's voice—and another woman's ! [Penel¬
ope and Agathe try to drag her away, but she holds on to
the knob of the door and resists their efforts to dislodge her.
Penelope finally drags Agathe away, and disappears in
room, l., leaving Arabella concealed by the open door from
the parties who enter, and gasping.]
Mrs. Munkittrick enters from c. -l., followed by Jeremiah,
both apparently acting a comedy.
Mrs. Munkittrick, Don't—don't say another word, I beg.
Jer, I must. I must speak. Hear me, darling ; become
the flower of my soul's garden, blossom in the desert waste of
my life, and make me happy.
Ara, [Aside.^ Heavens !
Mrs. M. But, Jeremiah, what will your wife say ?
Jer. My wife ! Why, I've got her permission. She told
me to fix ray fancy upon some more congenial spirit—to wor-
60
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
ship some bright, inaccessible star ! You're going to be a
star, and here I am ! Come—be mine ! Let's seal it with a
kiss ! [Arabella utters a wild shriek and closes the door with
a hang. Jeremiah immediately changes his manner, as he
notes this, and. takes a business-like tone.'\ Thank you !
\^Shakes her hand.^ I'm ten thousand times obliged. I hope
this little comedy hasn't incommoded you.
Mrs. M. S^Rernoving her hat and wrap.'\ Not in the
least.
Penelope enters from l. d,
Penelope. \IIurriedly, to Jeremiah.] Go to her ! She's
calling for you.
Jer. {^Buttoning his coat, and triumphantly.\ Suppose
we let her call a little longer.
Pen. No, Now's the time, if you want to be master of
the situation for life.
Jer. Do I? Don't I? The situation's changed ; Vm no
longer the "Great Unknown." I'm "Alpha" now ! She's
" Omega." ^PJxit, l. d.]
Mrs. M. Well, I hope our conspiracy will succeed. I've
been dragged into it so hurriedly that I was afraid I'd be
blown up in the general explosion.
Pen. The collision is over, and there's only one person
killed, wounded, and missing.
Mrs. M. [ Waving a legal-looking paper in the air^ Look
at this, Auntie ! A contract for two years. I've only io sign
it, and 1 shall become the star of two hemispheres.
O'Donnell appears, dejectedly, at c. r.
Did you hear? [/Shakingpaper before him.] Do you see?
O'Donnell. [Leaving his hat on piano as he comes down.]
You won't sign it, will you ?
Mrs. M. Why not ? Won't you be glad to see the world
at my feet.
O^D. No. There's never a happy match where the wife's
greater than the husband.
Mrs. M. Oh, you want to lead me, do you ?
O'D. No, I want to walk beside you—^not to follow like
your spaniel. You know I've come for iny answer. You
promised to give it to me. What is it to be ?
Mrs. M. [Meditating.] Well, I don't say "No."
O'D. But you don't say " Yes." [Pausei] Let me decide
for you. Give me that paper. Let me destroy it.
the geeat unknown.
.61
Mrs. M. I can't ! I can't !
0'i>. Well, then, hard as it is to leave you, good-by !
{JEkait, c. and e.]
Pen. [ Who has been nervously watching the above scene,
trying to get a word in now and then.^ You've sent away as
good a man as ever offered his heart to a woman.
Mrs. M. [Agitated.^ Don't speak to me ! Don't let me
waver in my purpose. [6r0cs to desk, E., and signs the paper.']
It's done !
Ned enters, c. and l.
Ned. What's done ? \T.hhes O'Donnkll's hat from top of
piano and, puts it behind.]
Pen. Did you see the poor fellow ?
Ned. I saw a poem, called " Despair," rolling down-stairs.
I picked him up—heard what had happened—and came to
congratulate you.
Mrs. M. Oh, don't, please ! I feel as if I had thrown away
all that was precious in life.
Néd. Nonsense ! You've only thrown away happiness.
What's that to fame—to ambition ? What's the Ipve of one
man to the plaudits of a million—if they come? Tke dazzling
lights, the crowded houses—if you get 'em ? To be áure, when
the crowds have gone forever, and the lights grown: dim to the
eye, and the music is but a faint echo of the triumphs that
have fled with youth, hope, and beauty—then—-but, alas ! not
till then—the love of one faithful heart will seem worth the
homage of a whole world that has forgotten.
Mrs. M. Don't—don't say any more. I begin to feel very
—very
O'DoNNELii re-enters, c. b., looking about anxiously.
O'Donnell. I hope you'll excuse my returning. I'm look¬
ing for my hat ; I was sure I left it here, and now I can't
find it.
Mrs. M. I'm glad this chance has given me the opportu¬
nity to thank you for all your kindness.
O'P. {Joyfully.] , Why, do you know that was what I
was just wishing I had done : to thank you ! Yes. Just as I
was going down, the thought carne to niie so suddenly that
I had to sit on the top step. "You ungrateful rascal,"
said a voice, " have you ever had so much happiness in your
life as you had while that girl let you walk and ride and talk
with her, serve her and help her ? No, you thankless villain ;
62
THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
and here, when she is trying to secure her own happiness in
her own way, and has to say good-by, you have the impudence,
you scoundrel, tO hurt her feelings by a rude and selfish fit of
sulks!" "You ahe right," I said to the voice, and, by the
piper, I think I recognized my grandmother's tones in it. "I'll
go and apologize on the spot ! " And I got up so full of it
that I missed my step and came near rolling clear down to the
bottom of the stairs. [Ned tahes up the hat from piano and
motions to Penelope, and both <jo off into library looking
hack at the tico.'\
Mrs. M. \Concerned^ Oh!
O'D. Will you forgive me? Say you will, and I'll get
my hat and never disturb you again.
Mrs. M. \^Softly.'\ Don't go, yet ! I have to tell you
what Y had to say.
CD. Yes—yes
Mrs. M. You used to be full of Irish proverbs—now I
know one.
O^D. Do you now ?
Mrs. M. It says, " When you part from a friend and
wish to give him a souvenir, offer him what you then happen
to prize most in the world." Will you accept such a gift
from me ? {^Takes her contract from the desk.^ Take this.
O'D. Will I ? Why, it's your contract ! [aSAc nods.^
And you give it to me ? \_She nods.^ To do what I like with
it ? IShe nods, smilingly. He tears it and casts it osicfe.]
Then, there ! [ Catches her in his arms.] And you'll give
all up for me? And you'll be my wife? You'll marry me
just one little once ? [Afe takes her up, kissing her, and they
meet Penelope, followed by Ned, who catches sight of the pair
and turns Penelope round as if to take her 'off again.\
Come in ! Come in ! I'm so happy ! [Ned and Penelope
advance and hold out their hands ; he to Mes. Munkitteick,
she to O'Donnell.]
Med. I congratulate you.
Pen. Bless you, my dears.
Jeeemiah enters from l. d., with Aeabella clinging to him
as if for support.
Jeremiah. Come along, my dear.
Ara. And you truly forgive me, Jeremiah ? Say it again.
Jer. [Kindly.'] I didn't say I forgave you. I told you
I'd explain everything as soon as you were strong enough to
stand it
the gkbat unknown.
63
Ara. If I have only you with me, I can stand anything—I
can stand all day. \To Ned, who comes forward, pressing
his hand and gazing fixedly at Tell me—you don't
want that dreadful girl ?
N^ed. Will you give her to me ?
Ara. But what could induce you—or anybody—to think
of either of them ?
2^ed. Look at them both now, and you'll see.
Etna and Pansy enter, e. u. d., appropriately dressed. Tom
follows, holding Pansy by the hand.
Pansy. Mamma.
Etna. Momsey !
Ara. [Holding each by the hand, and gazing from one to
the other^ Are you the same children ? [Looks round at
the various groups that are observing her intently?^ Then it
was a comedy you were playing ?
P^na and Pan. Yes, ma.
Mrs. M. And mine was a little comedy, too.
Tom. But mine is no comedy I'm in dead earnest.
Ara. And who are you, sir ?
Tom. If you please, I am Tom.
Ara. I begin to see it all.
Pen. Well, Arabella, I never thought you such a fool as
you looked.
Ara. Oh, I can take a joke and take a lesson.
Jer. And give us one of your real, old-fashioned Connecti¬
cut Thanksgiving pumpkin-pies.
Ara. Jeremiah, I'll make it myself.
Epilogue.
Ara. [To Jekemiah and others.'\
Won't you all forgive me ?
Pen. I will.
Etna. And I.
Pan. And I.
Jer. And I'll forgive you when I taste that pie.
Ara. I've been a goose ! Oh, how to say it neatly !
Ned, you're good at talking, you can do it sweetly.
Tell my mistake !
Ned. Perhaps it lay in this :
To fancy genius scorns the lowly bliss
Of homely duties faithfully performed.
64
the great unknown.
Torn. You knew better, now that you've reformed.
Ned. True greatness, whether man's or woman's, shows
The lofty source from which all greatness flows.
When it can read the star that grandly moves
And yet to simple Duty faithful proves.
Pen. Yes, " Can pall up spirits from the vasty deep,"
Yet rock the cradle while the babies sleep.
Jer. Yes. Can paint volcanoes as they madly spurt.
Yet sew a button on a husband's shirt.
Mrs. M. Can check the yearning for a lofty part.
Rather than lose a loving, trusting heart.
O'D. " Type of the wise that soar, but never roam.
True to the kindred points of hearth and home."
Pan. Oh, Etty ! he cribbed that. Tennyson, you know ;
Tom and I read it long ago. \^Taking his arm.]
Etna. [7b Ned.] And /'m- going to be good! Poz !
You'll never hear
A single word that could " offend the ear."
I mean to cut all that.
Ned. Ahem ! Say the rest
To our good friends, and mind you do your best.
Etna. I will! \To audience^ I solemnly announce
To every bit of slang I'll give the bounce.
All. Oh ! oh ! [Ned makes a gesture of despair.\
Etna. \Notieea it.l
Pray take my lapse of dignity in sport,
Forgive my follies—make a good report !
Tell all our friends if they would like to see
The strangest fancies cured most easily,
To come see us, and then to fairly own
We teach a lesson in the " Great Unknown."
Curtain.